History, Medicine, and the Traditions of Renaissance Learning (Cultures of Knowledge in the Early Modern World)

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History, Medicine, and the Traditions of Renaissance Learning


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nancy g . sir aisi

the university of michigan press

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ann arbor

Copyright © by the University of Michigan 2007 All rights reserved Published in the United States of America by The University of Michigan Press Manufactured in the United States of America c Printed on acid-free paper 2010 2009 2008 2007

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No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher. A CIP catalog record for this book is available from the British Library. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Siraisi, Nancy G. History, medicine, and the traditions of Renaissance learning / Nancy G. Siraisi. p. cm. — (Cultures of knowledge in the early modern world) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN-13: 978-0-472-11602-7 (cloth : alk. paper) ISBN-10: 0-472-11602-9 (cloth : alk. paper) 1. Medicine—History—16th century. 2. Renaissance. I. Title. R146.S57 2008 610.9—dc22 ISBN13 978-0-472-02548-0 (electronic)

2007010656

For

nobuyuki sir aisi

PREFACE AND ACKNOWLED GMENTS

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his book is a study of connections, parallels, and mutual interaction between two in›uential disciplines, medicine and history, in ‹fteenth- to seventeenth-century Europe. The elevation of history in status and signi‹cance, the expansion of the scope and methods of history, and the related (but distinct) growth of antiquarianism are among the most striking—and recently among the best studied—features of the humanist culture of that period. Over the same centuries, medical knowledge, too, was transformed in ways that linked learned tradition with empirical investigations and with an emphasis (not new, but greatly increased) on description, narrative, material evidence, and particulars; and humanism—in many senses of that slippery term—strongly in›uenced not only the content and presentation of medical knowledge but the entire intellectual formation of academically educated medical practitioners. Since much evidence suggests that medieval and Renaissance medical learning was in general highly responsive to contemporary intellectual currents, I thought it would be worth inquiring into the extent both to which changing notions of history affected the literature of medicine and to which medical men contributed to historical writing. In short, I sought answers to these questions: What aspects of Renaissance medicine resonated with the contemporary understanding of history or historical method? What kind of history did medical doctors write? What kinds of doctors wrote history? Such answers as I found are in the following pages. As I pursued this topic, the

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Preface and Acknowledgments

eclectic enthusiasm with which Renaissance physicians embarked on historical writing led me into many new areas and taught me a lot. I shall miss their company. I owe thanks to many friends and colleagues for their help at different stages of this work. I am particularly grateful to the scholarly editors of the University of Michigan Press series Cultures of Knowledge in the Early Modern World—Ann Blair, Anthony Grafton, and Jacob Soll—and to two anonymous referees for the University of Michigan Press for very useful comments on the entire manuscript. I also wish to thank Frédéric Tinguely for reading and commenting on chapter 8 and Ian Maclean and Gianna Pomata for helpful discussions and advice. Remaining mistakes are, of course, my own. It has been a pleasure to work with Chris Hebert as editor. A grant from the Mellon Foundation ‹nanced travels to libraries in Europe and research expenses at home. At different times, Manu Radhakrishnan and Christopher Petitt provided research assistance. Thanks also to Alice Falk for help with manuscript preparation. I am grateful to the staffs of all the libraries where I have worked, but especially to Miriam Mandelbaum and Arlene Shaner of the Rare Book Room of the New York Academy of Medicine. Invitations to deliver the Josephine Waters Bennett Lecture at the annual meeting of the Renaissance Society of America in 1999 and the Garrison Lecture at the annual meeting of the American Association for the History of Medicine in 2003 provided opportunities to begin to develop the themes of this book. I am grateful to the Renaissance Society of America for permission to reuse some of the material from my article based on the ‹rst of those lectures, “Anatomizing the Past: Physicians and History in Renaissance Culture,” Renaissance Quarterly 53 (2000): 1–30. Though not incorporated into this book, my article based on the second of those lectures—“Medicine and the Renaissance World of Learning,” Bulletin of the History of Medicine 78 (2004): 1–36—also sets out a preliminary sketch of some of the questions and issues I have tried to explore more fully here. Somewhat different versions of sections of chapters 2 and 4 appeared in, respectively, “History, Antiquarianism, and Medicine: The Case of Girolamo Mercuriale,” Journal of the History of Ideas 64 (2003): 231–51, and “Oratory and Rhetoric in Renaissance Medicine,” Journal of the History of Ideas 65 (2004): 191–211—both copyright Journal of the History of Ideas, Inc., and both reprinted by permission of the University of Pennsylvania Press. Another short section of chapter 2 will appear in Thomas Rütten, ed., Geschichte der Medizingeschichtsschreibung (Remscheid: Gardez! [in press]). An earlier version of a section of chapter 5 appeared as part of my article “Cardano and the History of Medicine,” in

Preface and Acknowledgments

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Girolamo Cardano: Le opere, le fonti, la vita, ed. Marialuisa Baldi and Guido Canziani (Milan: FrancoAngeli, 1999); I am grateful to FrancoAngeli for permission to reuse this material. An earlier version of chapter 6 appeared as “Historiae, Natural History, Roman Antiquity, and Some Roman Physicians,” in Historia: Empiricism and Erudition in Early Modern Europe, ed. Gianna Pomata and Nancy G. Siraisi (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2005), 325–54; I thank MIT Press for permission to reprint this material. An earlier version of a section of chapter 8 appeared in “In Search of the Origins of Medicine: Egyptian Medicine and Paduan Physicians,” in Inventing Genealogies, ed. Valeria Finucci and Kevin Brownlee (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2001), 235–61; I am grateful to Duke University Press for permission to reprint. Finally, as always, my greatest thanks are owed to my husband, to whom this book is dedicated.

CONTENTS

List of Figures xiii Abbreviations xv Note to the Reader xvii Introduction 1

par t 1. histor y in medical liter ature Preface to Part 1. A Diagnosis from History 23 1. Bodies Past 25 2. History and Histories in Medical Texts 63 3. Life Writing and Disciplinary History 106

par t 2. physicians, civ il histor y, and antiquar ianism Preface to Part 2. Rival Physician Historians of the Italian Wars 137 4. Milan: Problems of Exemplarity in Medicine and History 141 5. Rome: Medicine, Histories, Antiquities, and Public Health 168 6. Vienna: Physician Historians and Antiquaries in Court and University 194 7. Beyond Europe 225 Conclusion: Medicine, History, and the Changing Face of Scienti‹c Knowledge 261 Notes 269 Bibliography 357 Index 421

FIGURES

Fig. 1. Fig. 2. Fig. 3.

Portrait of Galen from an edition of his Therapeutica and Therapeutica ad Glauconem (Venice, 1500)

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A supposed giant’s tooth illustrated in Thomas Bartholin’s Historiarum anatomicarum rariorum Centuria I et II

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Pirro Ligorio’s depiction of ancient Greek athletes lifting weights, from Girolamo Mercuriale’s De arte gymnastica libri sex

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Fig. 4. Title page of Hippocrates’ Opera published in Basel in 1526, placing Hippocrates in the company of Greek and Roman philosophers, poets, rhetoricians, and historians Fig. 5.

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Duke Antoine of Lorraine leading his troops to battle, as illustrated in Symphorien Champier’s Le recueil ou croniques des hystoires des royaulmes daustrasie

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Fig. 6. The physician, poet, and historian Johannes Cuspinianus as depicted in Johannes Sambucus’s Veterum aliquot ac recentium medicorum philo-sophorumque icones

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Fig. 7.

Fig. 8.

Members of the early Germanic tribes as illustrated in Wolfgang Lazius’s De gentium aliquot migrationibus, sedibus ‹xis, reliquiis, linguarumque initiis et immutationibus ac dialectis, libri XII

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Title page of the revised edition of Giovanni Tommaso Minadoi’s Historia della guerra fra Turchi, et Persiani published in Venice in 1588

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ABBREVIATIONS

ADB

Königliche Akademie der Wissenschaften. Historische Commission. Allgemeine Deutsche Biographie. 56 vols. 1875–1912. Reprint, Berlin: Duncker & Humblot, 1967–71.

DBI

Dizionario biogra‹co degli italiani. 67 vols. to date. Rome: Istituto della Enciclopedia, 1960–.

DSB

Dictionary of Scienti‹c Biography. 16 vols. New York: Scribner, 1970–80.

NDB

Bayerische Akademie der Wissenschaften, Munich. Historische Kommission. Neue Deutsche Biographie. 22 vols. to date. Berlin: Duncker & Humblot, 1953–.

ÖNB

Vienna, Österreichische Nationalbibliothek.

NOTE TO THE READER

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ources cited in boldface type in the notes to this book appear in the “Printed Primary Sources” section of the bibliography. In Latin titles and quoted passages, capitalization has been modernized. Translations are my own unless otherwise indicated.

INTRODUCTION

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mong historical works produced in the ‹fteenth and sixteenth centuries, the Nuremberg Chronicle, the Chronicon Carionis, and Paolo Giovio’s Histories of His Own Times stand out for several reasons. The Nuremberg Chronicle has achieved lasting fame as a masterpiece of Renaissance book production. Successive recensions of the Chronicon Carionis perpetuated schemes of universal history and provided the view of humanity’s past for generations of Lutheran students. Notwithstanding the disparagement of some critics, Giovio’s panorama of contemporary history reached an international readership in Catholic Europe, with eleven editions in the original Latin, plus twelve in Italian, four in French, and one each in German and Spanish translation. But seen from a different point of view, all three of these works exemplify the theme of this book: the participation of authors trained in medicine in the Renaissance enthusiasm for and writing of history. In 1493, the simultaneous publication in both Latin and German of the lavishly illustrated Nuremberg Chronicle was a ‹tting expression of local civic pride in one of the wealthiest cities of northern Europe—a complicated and expensive project, the fruit of a collaboration among merchant patrons with humanist tastes, artists, the printer, and the author. The author—or, rather, compiler—in question was Hartman Schedel, one of many Germans who traveled south to obtain a medical degree from Padua. Eventually, he returned to Nuremberg, where he spent the rest of his career as a medical practitioner, book collector, and leading member of the small local humanist circle. Dr. Schedel’s role in the making of the Chronicle is testimony not only

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to his own historical interests but also to the esteem in which his historical learning as well as his medical knowledge were held among Nuremberg’s civic and intellectual elite. Johann Carion is best remembered as an astrologer, but during his short life, he practiced medicine as well as reading the skies and summarizing world history for German princely courts. Subsequently, revisions and expansion by Melanchthon almost entirely subsumed Carion’s contribution to the work that bears his name; and after Melanchthon’s death, the Chronicon Carionis reached its ‹nal form in the continuation by Caspar Peucer, professor of medicine at Wittenberg, medical practitioner, and medical and theological author. Giovio received his doctorate in medicine from Pavia in 1511; before turning to history and to ecclesiastical careerism at the papal court, he practiced and wrote on medicine in Rome.1 That three well-known and much-studied contributions to Renaissance historical literature should all embody the work of medically trained authors is not an anomaly or just an unusual coincidence. Rather, these are examples drawn from a much larger body of Renaissance and early modern historical writing by medical men. The present book is a study of the extensive involvement of physicians in the reading, production, uses, and shaping of historical knowledge in the period ca. 1450–1650. It should be said at the outset, however, that it is certainly not (nor is it intended to be) a comprehensive account of what is in fact a large and scattered body of material, widely varying in the character and signi‹cance of its individual items. Instead, I have drawn on selected examples, both from the literature of medicine and from historical writing by physician authors on subjects unrelated to medicine, in an attempt to uncover some of their intellectual motivations and disciplinary methodologies, as well as the professional, social, and intellectual contexts that may have fostered historical or antiquarian interests among physicians. Hence, this book aims both to investigate a salient but hitherto little explored aspect of Renaissance medical humanism and to consider the place of physicians in the intellectual world of late ‹fteenth- to early seventeenth-century history and antiquarianism. Remarking on the prominent presence of medical men among antiquaries, Peter Burke has noted the need for a study of physicians in early modern culture.2 I hope this book goes some way in that direction, notwithstanding its limitations of scope and chronology. History was surely not the only discipline outside medicine to which Renaissance and early modern physicians addressed themselves. Yet there is reason to suppose that both history and antiquarianism were in some ways particularly congenial to medicine and that the relation was multifaceted and of broad signi‹cance. Between the

Introduction

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‹fteenth century and the mid-seventeenth, the intersections of history and medicine took many forms, of which interest in the past of medicine itself as a discipline or profession was only one. The enthusiasm of Renaissance humanists for the historical, biographical, and doxographical literature of antiquity indeed reshaped the presentation of medicine’s past (as that of many other branches of learning). But in the same period, other relations of history and medicine were of equal or greater importance. A new esteem for history as a branch of learning, new humanist historiography, and growing scholarly interest in material remains of the past were prominent features of ‹fteenth- and sixteenth-century humanist culture. In this intellectual environment, such “historical” elements within medicine as narrative, empiricism, and attention to particulars and to material evidence also took on new prominence. These features were of course present in the medicine of the Middle Ages, alongside its scholastic and philosophical aspects. But from about the turn of the ‹fteenth and sixteenth centuries, they began to acquire greatly enhanced weight and signi‹cance, as medical men incorporated ever-increasing amounts and new genres of narrative, description, and record into their medical writings—developments that are among the most noteworthy features of Renaissance medical literature. Thus, both the context of a polymathic and historically oriented humanist culture and features internal to medicine united to make it easy for some medical men to turn without any sense of incongruity to the writing of civil history, professional or other lives, or histories of sciences and to the study of antiquities and, in short, of any aspect of the human past. But in the case of medical as of other authors, the speci‹c direction taken by an individual’s historical interests frequently owed much to social and institutional circumstances, among them educational structures, patronage (especially connections with the world of princely courts), regional loyalties, and local scholarly communities. Although some of the themes of the following chapters could pro‹tably be traced into the eighteenth century, the later seventeenth century marks an appropriate point at which to end. By then, for some physicians (if not yet for medical culture as a whole), the distinction between professional and specialized scienti‹c knowledge and humanistic learning was beginning slowly to become sharper and clearer. In the broader culture, historical methodology began to undergo signi‹cant change. Moreover, the relation between medicine and history started to shift in signi‹cant ways as medicine’s ancient authorities gradually ceased to be a source of current practical information and as new varieties of medical history began to emerge in the late seventeenth century and still more in the eighteenth.

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Thus, this book is primarily an account of an episode in the history of European learning that also belongs to the story of the rise of empiricism in both the life and human sciences. Among medically trained men who actively engaged with history (in any of the senses just mentioned) are some very wellknown ‹gures—for example, in addition to those named at the beginning of this chapter, Girolamo Cardano, Gabriel Naudé, and Hermann Conring— and many others more obscure. No precise count of the number of physicians who wrote on historical or antiquarian topics is available, and they presumably always remained a minority even among the elite of medical practitioners who left written works. But the following chapters leave no doubt that they constituted a substantial group, whose members formed part of the learned elite that shared in and shaped Renaissance intellectual life. Between the late ‹fteenth century and the mid-seventeenth, the role of humanistic learning in medical education, the enlarged place of history and antiquarianism in the broader intellectual environment, characteristics internal to medicine as then understood, and some social settings all seem to have combined to encourage physicians to develop historical and antiquarian interests of the kind described in this book. Hence, alongside other factors in the Renaissance and early modern development of both medicine and history, the relation of medicine with history also calls for attention. In short, the interaction of history, medicine, and the traditions of Renaissance learning merits consideration as a phase of European intellectual history.

humanism and renaissance medicine From the latter part of the ‹fteenth century onward, humanistic in›uences strongly affected medical learning. The term medical humanism usually refers to a core enterprise of intensive philological study, editing, and translation of ancient Greek medical texts—the occupation of a relatively small number of Hellenist scholars—and to the reception and scienti‹c in›uence of the fruits of these labors among a wider medical audience. In areas central to medicine, leading ‹gures of the period engaged in the ongoing task of explicating a recently enlarged corpus of ancient medical, anatomical, and natural philosophical writing. The resulting fuller knowledge of Greek medicine inspired both imitation of the texts and, in some celebrated instances, their critical confrontation with nature. Allied with a new empiricism, such confrontations helped to produce the justly famous scienti‹c contributions associated with medicine in the century and a half spanning the lifetimes of Vesalius and Harvey: the development of anatomy; the expansion of botanical and natural

Introduction

5

Fig. 1. Portrait of Galen from his Therapeutica lib. XIV, Therapeutica ad Glauconem lib. II (Venice: [Z. Callierges for N. Blastus], 1500). Niccolò Leoniceno provided the manuscripts for this edition, the ‹rst to print authentic works of Galen in Greek and a landmark of medical humanism (see Durling 1961, 236, note 32). The artist has represented Galen seated in a large chair, with upraised hand, and book, features that—unlike the distinctive hat—are often found in late medieval and Renaissance depictions of academics. Here they seem to portray the Greek physician as a medical professor lecturing to his students. Wellcome Library, London.

historical knowledge; extensive discussions of the signs, transmission, and nature of disease; and the beginning of cumulative advances in physiology. These are achievements of central importance for the history of science and medicine and, indeed, for modernization in Europe. They have long rightly been and continue to be the subject of intense study. Given the role of ancient texts in—and the basic assumptions of—Renaissance and early modern medical culture, all the activities that I have just named involved mastery of substantial classical learning as well as technical knowledge. But the broadly common basis of learning in all humanistic dis-

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ciplines, including medicine, also enabled many medically trained individuals to be full participants in a learned world extending well beyond medicine. Renaissance medical humanism both fostered and provided ample scope for the development among learned physicians of interests characteristic of humanistic culture in general: fascination with all kinds of manipulations of nature, ranging from natural magic to engineering; changing philosophical preferences, particularly the diversi‹cation of Aristotelianism and the revival of Platonism; and enhancement of the status of history, narrative, and description of particulars. Moreover, medicine, like other learned disciplines, underwent something of a literary transformation; many (though by no means all) authors of works in such standard genres as the commentary abandoned scholastic quaestiones in favor of a more humanistic style, and other, newer genres of medical writing emerged. Furthermore, although the map of the disciplines was changing in the sixteenth century and new specialties were taking shape, academic learning still led its possessors into an intellectual world that was in many respects unspecialized. The formation in arts that in some form or another preceded university medical education was likely to involve substantial exposure to rhetoric, logic, and natural philosophy; thus, medical graduates of Italian universities often taught logic or philosophy during the ‹rst few years of their careers. Astrology and some aspects of philosophy were not just part of preliminary general education but, on occasion, had a well-de‹ned place within medicine itself. The role of astrology in early modern medical practice may not have been quite as pervasive as is sometimes claimed. Nevertheless, some sixteenth-century medical practitioners erected astrological ‹gures for the onset of patients’ illnesses; probably almost all paid attention to “critical days” of illness supposed to depend on the phases of the moon.3 Thus, although the level of knowledge and use of astrology doubtless varied widely, most medical practitioners were familiar with another, stillrespected discipline that, like medicine itself, regularly made use of retroactive analysis and historical or biographical narrative as well as prediction. Philosophical concepts continued to play a part in medical arguments, as one has only to read a few humanistic (and not only scholastic) medical commentaries to discover. When a student moved on from arts to medical studies, he certainly received technical training in knowledge peculiar to medicine and familiarity with a specialized medical literature; but he was simultaneously inducted into a humanistic (or in some settings, still largely scholastic) professional and intellectual community. Unambiguously, the possession of a university degree

Introduction

7

in medicine constituted a professional quali‹cation—it was, for example, a prerequisite for entry into colleges of physicians or for possession or claim of various forms of authority over other practitioners. University training in medicine provided a common core of bookish knowledge based on a corpus of medical texts—ancient, medieval, and modern—and some practical training. Perhaps even more important, as Willem Frijhoff has noted, it provided professional socialization.4 Most graduate physicians made their living by medical practice or by a combination of practice and teaching. But for many graduate physicians, technical medical knowledge was undoubtedly only one aspect of their learning. Moreover, the boundaries of learning deemed appropriate and useful to a physician seem to have been quite broad and indeterminate. Traditional links between medicine and natural philosophy, the philological approach encouraged by medical humanism, emerging connections between medicine and natural history, and the interaction of physicians with political authorities all suggested directions in which intellectually ambitious men might pursue branches of learning that were not strictly medical yet were perceived by themselves and their contemporaries as not just compatible with but appropriate to a medical career. Moreover, as some of the lives and works discussed in the following chapters make clear, writing on historical, biographical, or antiquarian topics as well as or instead of medicine evidently contributed, in at least some instances, to the success of a medically trained author’s career. It is not possible to identify any single typical career pattern for successful physician historians: some authors, such as Hartmann Schedel, combined their historical interests with lifelong commitment to medicine; others, such as Paolo Giovio, abandoned medicine for history at the ‹rst opportunity. Furthermore, such omnipresent early modern realities as patronage and confessional allegiance, as well as other imponderable factors, surely often also played a part in determining the trajectory of a professional career. But these other interests and writings by physicians can also be characterized as professional in at least two senses. In pragmatic terms, learning not directly related to medicine might advance a physician’s career because it was useful to—or at the least served to impress—in›uential patrons/patients, particularly in the world of the court. In intellectual terms, the natural philosophical and humanistic as well as medical knowledge and skills involved in acquiring signi‹cant medical learning had manifold applications. Moreover, although no one would claim that all the medical or historical or antiquarian works discussed in the following chapters were of major signi‹cance, most of their authors seem to have enjoyed a relatively—and in some cases a highly—priv-

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ileged position, even among the minority of the medical profession constituted by graduate physicians. In this context, it is worth noting that most of the graduate physicians in early seventeenth-century Tuscany seem to have spent their entire careers in practice in small towns, that most (like many contemporary holders of the numerous minor and low-paid chairs in medicine, logic, and philosophy at the University of Bologna) apparently left no written works, and that the vast corpus of sixteenth-century writing by graduates in medicine includes innumerable minor medical treatises by authors of a single piece or very few works.5 But historical and antiquarian interests were certainly no guarantee of professional success either. It may be instructive to provide an example of a physician whose historical interests brought him very little. Giovanni Battista Pellegrini was a member of a Bolognese noble family who spent his entire career at the University of Bologna. He graduated in philosophy and medicine in 1542 at the age of twenty-four. Thereafter, he brie›y taught logic and philosophy before moving to a professorship in medical theory, which he held for twenty years, until his death in 1566. He left three treatises, two of which were brief tracts on disease and medical signs. The third was an almost three-hundred-folio apologia against “the calumniators of philosophy and medicine.” This work, which is certainly evidence of its author’s philosophical and historical learning (being replete with citations of Plato and lengthy discussions of matters ranging from ancient Greek and Roman political institutions to the transmigration of souls), is devoted to arguing the superiority of medicine and philosophy over law—in the context of a dispute over precedence in academic processions at the University of Bologna. Although such a major ‹gure as Girolamo Cardano thought well enough of Pellegrini’s learning to regard him as a friend and to exchange medical commentaries with him, his career was clearly narrow and not very rewarding, either intellectually or ‹nancially. His friend Cardano described Pellegrini as timid, “of melancholy habit,” burdened by poor health, and barely able to support his wife and ‹ve children.6

history and antiquarianism in renaissance culture No short summary can do justice to the changes in the status of history over the course of the ‹fteenth to early seventeenth centuries or to the everexpanding modern scholarship on the subject; the following, highly compressed sketch aims simply to outline a few of the most relevant developments. Throughout the Middle Ages, vigorous traditions of historical writing

Introduction

9

›ourished in chronicles, hagiography, and other genres. But in Aristotelian scholastic epistemology, history occupied a position much inferior to philosophy, in that reasoning from fundamental principles to universally valid conclusions was held to be the only procedure that yielded understanding of causes and true knowledge (scientia). By contrast, the studia humanitatis gave history, together with rhetoric and moral philosophy, a central position. Humanists paid new attention to ancient characterizations of history by Aristotle, Cicero, and Quintilian and set out to imitate ancient models of historical writing, some available for the ‹rst time in western Europe. As a result, both the style and the substance of historical writing changed. Leonardo Bruni and other ‹fteenth-century chancellors or secretaries wrote copiously on history, developing new forms of secular political history—a direction carried further by Machiavelli and Guicciardini. Growing theoretical interest in history and its methods, already evident in the late ‹fteenth century among some Italian humanists, led in the sixteenth to the production of a whole series of treatises on the ars historica in Italy, Germany, and France; the most famous of these is Jean Bodin’s Methodus ad facilem historiarum cognitionem, ‹rst published in 1566. At the same time, although history remained closely connected to rhetoric and moral philosophy and was usually considered exemplary in function, the term historia began again to be understood—and to acquire a range of applications—in its original Greek sense of “narrative of the results of an inquiry,” that is, a report on research. But over the course of the next two centuries, as Anthony Grafton has pointed out, the expansion of historical and geographical knowledge and the multiplication of historical sources and methodologies ultimately undermined both the unique standing of the ancient historians and the claims of history to be moral and exemplary.7 Throughout the period under discussion and beyond, writers of history came from all categories of literate society. Their numbers included humanist secretaries or teachers, university professors in a variety of ‹elds, members of the clergy, lawyers, and physicians, as well as the occasional courtier (for example Sir Walter Raleigh) and some nobles or patricians. Motivations for writing histories were doubtless as numerous as historians—including the desire to display humanist erudition, civic or family pride, personal experience of dramatic political or military events, and the behest of patrons.8 Moreover, the encyclopedic and polymathic character of late Renaissance learning ensured that much historical, biographical, and antiquarian information was transmitted via general reference works, in forms that did not encourage the development of historical specialization.9 Nonetheless, in-

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creasing awareness and deployment of history in sectarian, legal, and political contexts fostered more specialized forms of historical inquiry and writing. In particular, as several well-known studies have shown, authors trained in jurisprudence played a major role, especially in France. They were responsible not only for the humanist historicization of Roman law but also, more generally, for important contributions to historiographic theory and to the development of archival research.10 Other motivations for the proliferation of historical writing and the development of historical genres were to be found in concepts of national or ethnic origin; the genealogical ambitions, or fantasies, of dynastic rulers; and the desire for new, sectarian versions of ecclesiastical (and providential) history in the age of the Reformation—of which the chief monuments were the collaborative enterprise of the Magdeburg Centuries and the work of Baronio. These various motivations for interest in history were not necessarily mutually exclusive. Thus, in the case of the jurist and writer on the ars historica François Baudouin, his historical ideas and methodology emerged in the context both of the French legal milieu and of a lifelong interest in ecclesiastical history.11 In the sixteenth century, too, history began to acquire a presence in some universities in the German lands; Melanchthon gave lectures on history at Wittenberg, and the Lutheran University of Marburg had a professorship of history from the time of its foundation in 1527.12 Furthermore, as Daniel Woolf has illustrated with much detail for England, the general readership for and awareness of history of all kinds seems to have broadened over the course of the sixteenth and the early seventeenth centuries.13 As striking as the changes in the writing of narrative political, military, and ecclesiastical history in the ‹fteenth and sixteenth centuries was the development of antiquarianism—the study of the customs, institutions, and material culture of the ancient past. Although the basis for many such studies remained primarily textual, antiquarianism, allied with enthusiasm for collecting ancient artifacts, added a new emphasis on material and visual evidence (especially that of inscriptions and coins). In one of the most important theoretical treatises on history written during the sixteenth century, Francesco Patrizi noted approvingly: [Some authors] write not so much about the acts of nations as about ways of life, customs, and laws. . . . And there is another sort, especially in our day, those who write in [yet] another way, addressing such topics as the clothing of the Romans and the Greeks, their weaponry, their ways of making camp, and their ships, their buildings, and all sorts of

Introduction

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things necessary for their way of life. . . . And others, again, write in a certain novel way about the magistrates of the Romans and the Greeks, and others about the form of the republics of Rome, or Athens, or Sparta, or Carthage, or Venice. As you know, this is a most useful kind of writing.14 In the sixteenth century, as Arnaldo Momigliano showed in a seminal article, antiquarian studies and the writing of narrative histories were usually separate undertakings. In 1560, Patrizi was still unusual in recognizing the relevance of such subjects for his general work on history. Yet not all authors treated the two genres as completely distinct. Some wrote both historical and antiquarian works, others embedded antiquarian description in historical narratives, and yet others used archaeological ‹ndings to revise narrative history.15 Some physicians, too, turned their attention to aspects of antiquity and, in some instances, types of sources more usually thought of as the province of antiquarians and travel writers: social customs, institutions, ethnography, and material remains. To say that medicine shared in the early modern culture of antiquarianism is not to claim that the major original contributions to knowledge of the Roman past made in that period owed anything much to members of the medical profession. Those achievements were the work of antiquaries and historians single-mindedly dedicated to such studies (even though Carlo Sigonio, the editor of the inscribed Fasti Capitolini, a discovery of great importance for understanding the chronology of Roman history, brie›y studied medicine at Bologna without taking a degree).16 Rather, increased attention to forms of evidence, proof, testimony, and probable arguments crossed and recrossed many areas and forms of knowledge, whether historical or natural.17

medicine and history Two principal Renaissance theorists of history noted an af‹nity between medicine and history. In Machiavelli’s eyes, the parallel lay in the fact that medicine and history each stored up past experience for present practical purposes. In the preface to the Discourses, he observed that the basis of medicine was “nothing other than the experiments made by the ancient physicians, on which present physicians base their judgements,” and he deplored the failure of princes and republics to use ancient experience of government in the same way. For Bodin, bad writers about history shared a characteristic of bad physicians: both prescribed from a randomly assembled collection of

12


remedies without bothering to inquire into the causes of their effects. As Marie-Dominique Couzinet has noted, these are rather different views of medicine. Machiavelli perceived it as a collection of empirical particulars, whereas Bodin extended the medical analogy from the empirical discovery of remedies to the reasoning about natural causes of the rational and philosophically oriented physician. Yet both views re›ect, accurately enough, aspects of medicine as understood and practiced in the sixteenth century.18 Indeed, methodological af‹nities between medicine and history, which similarly relied on description of particulars and narrative of recorded events, appeared from the very earliest phase of both disciplines in classical Greece, as Arnaldo Momigliano and others have pointed out. Hippocratic authors considered the histories of diseases and patients and of their own discipline (most famously in the treatises known as Epidemics and On Ancient Medicine, respectively); historians included accounts of disease and showed awareness of medical teaching in their narratives, as Thucydides did when he wrote of the plague of Athens. These parallels cannot be pressed too far, but as Jacques Jouanna has shown, they do re›ect one aspect of ancient medicine (another, of course, is the relation between medicine and philosophy). Moreover, in late antiquity, writing about medicine developed a strong historical and doxographical component manifested in such works as the rich collection of Hippocratic pseudepigrapha and the account of the medical sects in the proem to Celsus’s De medicina. The elder Pliny, like Celsus, was neither a medical man nor a historian, but substantial passages in the Natural History dealing with the lives of physicians and the advent of Greek medicine in Rome contributed to medical doxography as well as to skeptical topoi about medicine.19 Above all, the writings of Galen both contained history and provided a model for historical writing in several senses. One such model was the history of Galen himself, since parts of the Galenic corpus are strongly autobiographical. In On Prognosis and The Method of Healing, Galen framed his teaching in accounts of his own clinical successes; he wrote treatises on his own bibliography; and he scattered throughout his vast oeuvre anecdotes about his travels, his public demonstrations, and his triumphs over doubters and rivals. But Galen’s output is also replete with a broader medical history. Much of what is known of the earlier history of Alexandrian medicine, for example, comes from passages in his works. Most important, Galen was a pioneer of historical scholarship on Hippocrates, essentially re-creating the ‹gure of Hippocrates in his own image.20 As is well known, western European knowledge of the heritage of ancient medicine, further enriched by Arabic contributions, was greatly enlarged by

Introduction

13

the translation movement of the twelfth century, which gave physicians access to Latin versions of a considerable, though far from complete, collection of Hippocratic, Galenic, and other texts; and in the course of the thirteenth century, medicine emerged as one of the three higher disciplines in the universities. The learned, academic medicine of the later Middle Ages always included the recognition that medicine involved both the analysis of causes and the recollection of particulars. Despite strong intellectual and professional incentives to emphasize medicine’s relation to natural philosophy and to claim medicine as a scientia in the scholastic Aristotelian sense (i.e., leading to universal truths via syllogistic reasoning based on accepted axioms), scholastic physicians usually admitted that this de‹nition ‹tted only the theoretical part of medicine. Its practical part had to be de‹ned as ars because so much of it was inherently and irreducibly about particulars—the particulars of individual patients, illnesses, medicinal ingredients, and remedies and of the recipes and rules that went by the name of “experience,” or experimenta.21 Nevertheless, narratives about individual patients were relatively rare in medieval Latin medical literature before the fourteenth century, being mostly con‹ned to a few anecdotes in surgical texts, although by about 1300, written consilia for patients (some of which had a narrative element) and occasional accounts of the opening of the cadaver (for funerary preparations, for investigation of supposedly miraculous phenomena, or to determine the cause of death) began to appear. Prior to the mid-‹fteenth century, there is little evidence to suggest that either the particularistic or the analytic aspect of medicine encouraged any noteworthy historical interests among medical men. As Chiara Crisciani has shown, scholastic medical authors seem mostly to have remained content with brie›y invoking a formulaic past for their own discipline—reiterating such themes as medicine as a divine gift, names of traditional founders, and a chronologically unspeci‹c story of medicine’s crude beginnings, perfection in remote antiquity, and subsequent loss and recovery. There are, of course, exceptions to this generalization. For example, Guy de Chauliac, the author of the comprehensive learned Latin book on surgery that became known as the Chirurgia magna (completed in 1363), used the De vita et moribus philosophorum formerly attributed to Walter Burley, as well as his own medical reading, to construct a capsule history of surgery (from Hippocrates to his own day) that is relatively rich in chronology and detail. Pietro d’Abano (d. 1315), too, had some interest in the history of philosophy and medicine, was an early reader of Celsus, and had an exceptionally broad range of learned reference. Yet Pietro’s innocence of or indifference to chronology was such

14


that he repeated without comment Celsus’s remark that the Roman physician Themison had died “recently.” As for histories dealing with “many and diverse things” (presumably Pietro had chronicles in mind), he dismissed them as disordered, incapable of producing true knowledge, and, by implication, interesting only to schoolboys.22 Signs of the spread of interest in history among medical men become marked in the second half of the ‹fteenth century—a time when, perhaps not coincidentally, astrologers, too, seem to have developed an interest in the history of their discipline, if one may judge from the work of Simon de Phares.23 The earliest stimuli for this development as far as physicians were concerned may have come not from anything internal to medicine or its history but from exposure to contacts—with a vigorous local chronicle tradition or humanist circles or both—that spread the habit of reading history. Thus, professors of medicine at Padua in the late thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries took part when the academic community twice formally endorsed works of local and recent history. The local climate of production of and interest in history obviously failed to impress Pietro d’Abano, but perhaps it encouraged the mid-fourteenth-century medical professor Jacopo Dondi, author of both a massive compilation of remedies and a brief Paduan chronicle (in which he patriotically claimed that Paduans had founded Venice, to the obfuscation of subsequent writers). Moreover, well before humanist philology was applied to many medical texts, some Italian physicians began to acquire humanistic and historical tastes in their private reading. In the mid-‹fteenth century, the wealthy medical bibliophile Giovanni di Marco da Rimini, owned—alongside his impeccably scholastic medical and philosophical books—a respectable collection of ancient history, including some Livy, and Latin versions of Josephus, Diogenes Laertius, and Dionysius of Halicarnassus.24 About the same time, the career of Michele Savonarola suggests the way in which professional circumstances might foster the development of physician historians. Moving between the worlds of university and court, Savonarola was a professor of practical medicine at the University of Padua and later a court physician in Ferrara, where he offered not only medical advice but also general moral, political, and practical counsel to the ruler Borso d’Este. In addition to producing numerous Latin and vernacular medical works (among them a frequently reprinted practica, a pioneering treatise on the regimen of pregnant women and infants, and a vernacular diet book for his patron), Savonarola wrote a treatise on the notable features and illustrious citizens of Padua and corresponded about the origins of Venice with the humanist notary and chancellor of Padua Sicco Polentone. In the next gener-

Introduction

15

ation, another court physician at Ferrara and the most famous of all medical humanists, Niccolò Leoniceno, translated Greek historians—Dio Cassius, Procopius, and others—into Italian, probably at the request of his ducal patron.25 But beginning about the late ‹fteenth century, availability of and attention to a wider range of ancient medical literature, the enhanced status of particulars and personal observation, an expanded role for narrative, and new forms of analysis began to transform—though certainly without overthrowing—Galenic medicine. Among many other and better-known effects, these developments may all have helped to predispose recipients of medical training to greater historical awareness. The publication of more or less the complete Hippocratic corpus in Latin (1525) and Greek (1526) made some of the most important examples of ancient medical narrative—namely, the case histories in the complete Epidemics—readily available for the ‹rst time. Similarly, Renaissance editions of works of Galen made clearer than ever before the extent to which he had introduced analyses of his own cases into The Method of Healing and other treatises. At the same time, interest in the Aristotelian works on animals, in Pliny, and in Herodotus encouraged the spread of the term historia as used to encompass both natural description and past events. Moreover, Renaissance physicians extended causal reasoning in medicine into new areas of physical investigation. Especially when new developments in anatomy began to affect the already established practice of autopsy, the explanation of appearances in the dissected cadaver could involve a chain of reasoning backward about past events in the body and life history of the deceased. Furthermore, substantial parts of the newly recovered heritage of ancient medicine were much prized between the ‹fteenth and the seventeenth centuries speci‹cally because of their historical (or supposedly historical) content, among them the Hippocratic pseudepigrapha and the work of Celsus. The Renaissance recovery of important treatises, new translations, and the dissemination of Galen’s entire output in print made Galen’s medical historical scholarship more fully available, more prominent, and more readily accessible. In the sixteenth century, this aspect of Galen was as highly valued as any other part of his teaching—so valued that a diligent Renaissance editor went to the trouble of forging some of Galen’s missing Hippocratic commentaries.26 In looking at the participation of medical men in historical and antiquarian culture, this book builds on much recent work in the history of science, the history of medicine, and intellectual history, including studies of collecting,

16


of antiquarianism, and of histories of disciplines. Discussions of the uses of the term and concept historia in all its early modern senses in a workshop held at the Max Planck Institut für Wissenschaftsgeschichte in 2003 at the invitation of Lorraine Daston were especially valuable, even though the present work addresses only a more restricted set of meanings and uses of history. Also helpful in shaping my ideas were the discussions at an earlier colloquium on nature and the disciplines in Renaissance Europe held at the Dibner Institute for the History of Science and Technology in 1995. In the history of medicine, the work of Ian Maclean on medical epistemology and semiology and of Gianna Pomata on medical observationes has been particularly in›uential, as have the studies of Alessandro Benedetti by Giovanna Ferrari and of Paolo Giovio by T. C. Price Zimmerman, each a splendid portrait in the round of a Renaissance humanist physician and writer of history.27 In emphasizing the broader intellectual and cultural relations of Renaissance and early modern medicine, I do not intend (and never have intended) to diminish the signi‹cance of the technical and scienti‹c content of medicine and related ‹elds, much less that of the history of health, disease, and therapy. Yet although the scienti‹c and, in recent years, the social and therapeutic aspects of the medicine of this period have been much studied, I think there remains room for a fuller picture of the place of medicine and physicians in its intellectual and cultural history. This book is divided into two sections. Part 1, “History in Medical Literature,” explores some uses of narrative, example, material evidence, historical concepts, and general historical information within the literature of medicine. The preface to part 1, “A Diagnosis from History,” shows learned physicians calling on Roman history to con‹rm an empirical diagnosis made in an emergency by a surgeon—the surgeon in question being Ambroise Paré. Chapter 1, “Bodies Past,” considers the medical response to historical ideas, arguments, and investigation regarding medicine’s central subject, the human body. It explores some examples of the participation of physicians not only in medical controversies over the possibility that human anatomy or susceptibility to disease might have changed since classical antiquity but also in broader debates over biblical and classical accounts implying that human dimensions or life span had changed since the remote past and in antiquarian investigation of ancient physical culture. Chapter 2, “History and Histories in Medical Texts,” looks at some uses of various forms of history in different genres of sixteenth-century medical literature: in those explicitly structured around narrative of observed particulars (e.g., accounts of cases and cures, observationes, autopsy reports); in a

Introduction

17

plague treatise in which the author pressed a version of epidemiological history into the service of contemporary medical polemic; and in commentaries, with special attention to two Hippocratic works that in some respects invite historical treatment, Epidemics and Airs Waters Places. Galen’s interest in the history of medicine, expressed in frequent judgments of his own predecessors, offered a powerful model suggesting that evaluating precursors was appropriate as an integral aspect of medical exposition, and prefaces to or passages in Renaissance commentaries include many examples of such evaluation. There is no doubt, too, that the strong competitive or performative element in academic life encouraged a display of historical learning in prefaces and opening lectures. At the same time, the open form of the commentary provided ample opportunity for historical excurses on all kinds of topics. Chapter 3, “Life Writing and Disciplinary History,” turns to Renaissance treatments of medicine’s past in medical paratexts. Among them are ceremonial medical oratory, lives of both recent and ancient physicians, and treatments of institutional and disciplinary history. Such texts not only drew on ancient models of medical doxography but also participated fully in contemporary developments in life writing, rhetoric, and the compilation of accounts of groups, professions, and institutions. Part 2, “Physicians, Civil History, and Antiquarianism,” uses regional studies to relate some medically trained authors’ contributions to general history with speci‹c professional, social, and intellectual environments. The preface to part 2, “Rival Physician Historians of the Italian Wars,” illustrates the point with a sketch of two physicians, one of them the well-known anatomical writer Alessandro Benedetti, who described episodes in contemporary military history from opposite political standpoints. Chapter 4, “Milan: Problems of Exemplarity in Medicine and History,” considers contexts for the historical thought of Girolamo Cardano, a physician who was unusually conscious of problems of historical methodology and interpretation and who put forward an incisive critique of exemplary history. Cardano’s own extensive use of examples in his medical writings, the environment of humanist historical writing in his native Milan and elsewhere, and the political vicissitudes of Milan during his lifetime all help to situate his critique. Chapter 5, “Rome: Medicine, Histories, Antiquities, and Public Health,” considers the range of involvement of the medical community in the ›owering and challenges of antiquarian studies in sixteenth-century Rome, noting especially the contributions of some physicians to a type of practical antiquarianism related in one way or another to public health. In particular, investigations of the ancient Roman water supply and methods of ›ood control had

18


practical implications in the rapidly growing sixteenth-century city. By contrast, chapter 6, “Vienna: Physician Historians and Antiquaries in Court and University,” looks at the career and writings of a group of physicians in sixteenth-century Vienna who left few medical works but whose extensive writings were most chie›y concerned with the ancient, medieval, and recent history of central Europe (especially the Habsburg lands), with the diplomatic and political claims of the Habsburg rulers and their military campaigns, and with imperial rulers and noble genealogies. These were medically trained historical writers for whom the pull of their historical interests and or court patronage—two instances of which included formal appointment as imperial historicus—clearly limited their interest in medicine or drew them away from it entirely. Yet they also ‹tted the pattern—already present in the ‹fteenth century and still ›ourishing in the seventeenth—of court physicians valued by rulers for services that were not con‹ned to medical advice.28 Finally, chapter 7, “Beyond Europe,” considers some of the ways in which European medical men dealt with the history and antiquities of Egypt and the Middle East. Physician authors, like many others, wrote on standard themes in ‹fteenth- and sixteenth-century European treatments of the region, among them the antiquities of Egypt and more or less hostile accounts of the Ottomans and their still-expanding empire. But a number of physicians, especially those in Venetian employ, also found professional opportunity to travel to Egypt and the East, in the service of Venetian merchant communities or otherwise. Ancient accounts of the medical wisdom of Egypt, contemporary usage of the medication known as mumia, and the appropriation of the ‹gure of Hermes Trismegistus by Paracelsans provided strong intellectual and professional motivations for concern with ancient—and in some instances contemporary—Egyptian medicine. At the same time, employment in the Middle East brought physicians into contact with Venetian consuls and Ottoman authorities, inspired some of them to report on contemporary political conditions, and led one to write a lengthy history of an ongoing war between the Ottomans and their eastern neighbors. Fifteenth- and sixteenth-century physicians who wrote general (in the sense of nonmedical) history wrote in all the genres commonly available in their day, ranging across periods from antiquity to their own time and from universal history through biography and narratives of particular historical episodes or military campaigns to saints’ lives and to collective accounts of particular categories of illustrious men. Contemporaries do not often seem to have criticized them for doing so—despite Bodin’s famously tart comparison

Introduction

19

of Polybius and Giovio, which notes that the former was quali‹ed to write the general history of his own time by broad travel and personal knowledge of military life, whereas the latter was a doctor by training who spent most of his time at the papal court.29 Let us return brie›y to the author/compiler Hartman Schedel, with whom this introduction began. Judging from Schedel’s practice of inserting religious, political, portentous, and medical broadsheets into his own copy of the printed work, his conception of history embraced divine action, past and current human actions, and medical and natural phenomena, bridging what are now taken to be high and low realms of culture.30 In short, medical training did not correlate with the production of any particular type of history. What quali‹ed physicians to write history (and interested them in doing so) was the general humanistic background that they shared with contemporaries in other ‹elds, the historical content found within medicine, and those developments in Renaissance medicine and life sciences that increased emphasis on the recording of particulars, the construction of narrative, and the analysis of past events. None of these factors necessarily in›uenced the choice of genre, period, or topic. But there seem to me to be clear cases in which an author’s medical training or views interacted with his broader historical understanding and interpretation, re›ecting habits of mind shaped by the author’s medical education, by circumstances related to his medical profession, or by both. The signi‹cant role played by learned jurists in the development of historical writing in sixteenth-century France has rightly been associated with legal training and interests. But learned physicians who interested themselves in history and antiquities brought to these topics an intellectual formation that emphasized such signi‹cant methodological features as the use of narrative, description, and a measure of attention to material evidence. As one might expect, professional circumstances also played a role. Physicians who wrote on general or civil history or on antiquities were for the most part men whose careers, experience, and associations took them beyond the sometimes narrow world of academic medical faculties into courtly or urban environments or humanistic circles. How, then, are we to read medical participation in two centuries of humanistic historical culture in all its varieties? Perhaps it is necessary to reconceptualize the view of Renaissance medical learning to include elements that have hitherto seemed extraneous to either the social or the scienti‹c history of medicine. Perhaps, too, Renaissance intellectual history should fully incorporate medical learning in all its varieties.

par t 1

History in Medical Literature

PREFACE TO PART ONE: A DIAGNOSIS FROM HISTORY

O

n May 10, 1575, the surgeon Ambroise Paré was summoned to determine whether the cause of death of two servants of a member of the Parlement of Paris was murder or “a sodaine apoplexie.” Fortunately for the victims, Paré, realizing that they were not dead but only profoundly unconscious, succeeded in reviving them. He also quickly recognized that the case was one of poisoning by fumes from a charcoal brazier. Later in the day, when it was clear that Paré’s emergency treatment had worked successfully, two learned physicians were called in. After they had commended the surgeon’s acumen and quick action, they discussed the cause of the accident. They said that “it was no new or strange thing, that men may be smothered with the fume and cloudy vapour of burning coales.” As evidence, they cited the accounts of the death of the emperor Jovian in 364 CE from this cause according to “Fulgosius, Volateranus, and Egnatius”—that is, three authors of early sixteenth-century Latin historical reference works: Battista Fregoso, author of a collection of “memorable deeds and sayings”; Giovanni Battista Egnazio, author of a set of lives of Roman emperors; and the encyclopedic Raffaele Maffei.1 Here, an example from ancient civil history and a modern medical case history mutually endorse one another and are both put at the service of medical practice. Moreover (as Paré presumably intended to show when he included the episode in his brief treatise on how to make medical reports), the same historical example both offers a lesson in prudence to the ordinary person and, in conjunction with modern observation, forms part of the specialized knowl23

24


edge of medical practitioners. Implicit in Paré’s account are overlapping and interconnected historical and medical interpretive concepts: the exemplary function of history and the medical usefulness of information derived from individual cases. Also implicit is the idea that general historical knowledge can be pertinent to medicine and is useful and appropriate for physicians. In Paré’s anecdote, furthermore, there seems to be a perfect ‹t between historical and medical understanding. The episode neatly illustrates methodological features that–in the sixteenth century, as in antiquity—medicine and history had in common. Examples, narrative, and knowledge of particulars were essential to both. The usefulness of example was indeed one of two central interpretative concepts common to a long tradition of historical writing and to Hippocratic-Galenic medicine, the other being some version of the belief that physical environment affected human mental and physical characteristics. The following three chapters examine some of the ways in which these two concepts manifested themselves within the ‹fteenth- to seventeenth-century literature of medicine. Chapter 1 considers medical responses to the concept of an aging world and concomitant changes in human anatomy and physiology over time. Chapter 2 explores different genres of technical medical writing for the presence of a variety of types of historical narrative, ranging from contemporary accounts of individual cases of illness and, sometimes, autopsy to depictions of the education, career, and patients of Hippocrates, meditations on Hippocratic comments on the social and political characteristics of ancient peoples, and an attempt to trace the historical epidemiology of plague. Many of these different histories, ancient and modern, that were incorporated into the technical literature of medicine were presumably offered as guides to medical practice. Such a relatively pragmatic motive for appeal to ancient experience was of course distinct from the moral purposes of exemplary history. But rhetorical use of historical example as a guide to moral conduct undoubtedly shaped some of the historical and biographical literature surrounding medicine that is the subject of chapter 3. The emphasis on the lives of medical men in these accounts, whether found in reference books of various kinds or in the paratexts accompanying editions of medical works, makes them a rich source of Renaissance biographical writing. Many are exemplary lives, designed to teach medical and other readers to imitate the good and avoid the bad, as the truism favored by medieval and many humanist historians went. Nevertheless, as will become apparent, some late sixteenth- and seventeenth-century treatments of the past of medicine—whether institutional, doctrinal, or biographical—show evidence of the development of new tools of historical criticism and analysis.

Chapter One

B ODIES PAST

I

n a famous passage, Sylvius, teacher and subsequently critic of Vesalius, explained to the readers of his Introduction to Anatomy (1555) the reason why a few things in our bodies today appear somewhat different than [they were] in the time of Hippocrates, Galen, or others among the ancients. If I did not think this testimony super›uous for you, I would prove, both from the writings of the ancients and from tombs that survive to this day, that our bodies have greatly diminished from their original size. You will agree that this [size] is very much reduced today, especially in those regions where marriage is permitted too freely and before the proper age. Many testimonies in both sacred and profane literature plainly convince one that the life span of the ancients was also longer than that of people in our own time. Indeed, the internal parts differ in size, number, and shape in different parts of the world, and both the writings of the ancients and our bodies abundantly testify that the same things that the ancients observed are not still found in all our bodies. So it is believable that the people of particular regions, just like other animals and indeed the very plants, either receive something peculiar to the region [in which they are found] or have undergone some change from their earlier nature.1

In short, when Galen reported that the sternum had seven segments and Vesalius observed only six, Sylvius concluded, “It is not an error of Galen, but 25

26


a change of nature in us.”2 Vesalius, of course, turned out to have the better case. Sylvius’s remarks have earned him “the enormous condescension of posterity”3 (or at least of historians of science and medicine), yet his assertion that the human body itself had a temporal as well as a natural history, in the sense of having undergone physical change since antiquity, was neither an argument hastily constructed ad hominem nor an idea peculiar to rabidly Galenic learned physicians. Rather, it drew on ideas that, in one form or another, were pervasive in medieval and Renaissance learned culture, were supported by both sacred texts and an array of ancient secular authorities, and were continuously addressed in a variety of contexts other than medical or anatomical debate. The belief that the human body had changed since early times belonged to the larger pattern of thought that viewed all of nature—indeed, the world itself—as subject to aging and deterioration. As a number of well-known studies have shown, such ideas, which drew on both classical and Christian sources, were widespread in the Middle Ages and persisted in one form or another into the seventeenth century.4 Sylvius’s appropriation of these ideas is only one of many possible examples of Renaissance and early modern discussions of ancient and modern human bodies. When physicians addressed this theme (which emerges not only in relation to anatomy but also in claims and counterclaims about changes over time in human life span, susceptibility to disease, physical appearance, and body culture), they took up a historical topic that was at once uniquely close to their special professional interests and expertise and a prime instance of the integration of their learning with broader contemporary currents of humanist historical and antiquarian erudition and developments in historiography. This chapter illustrates that integration from four different vantage points across the sixteenth and ‹rst half of the seventeenth centuries. One is the role within medical literature of historical concepts and information in controversies over supposedly new diseases and new ‹ndings in anatomy. The second is the contributions of medically trained authors, in both medical and antiquarian works, to debates over the putative existence of giants in antiquity. Finally, two works seem to constitute particularly notable individual examples of the integration of medical and antiquarian or historical culture in treating the human body of the past. These are the De arte gymnastica of Girolamo Mercuriale (an investigation of ancient athletics and physical training in which this famous and highly esteemed Italian physician presented the results of his cooperation with classicizing antiquarians) and a treatise that the German polymath Hermann Conring (equally celebrated for his histori-

Bodies Past

27

cal, legal, and medical erudition) devoted to comparison of the anatomy and physiology of the ancient and the modern Germans. But ‹rst, some aspects of the broader context demand consideration. Several late ‹fteenth- and early sixteenth-century developments seem likely to have stimulated fresh interest in the implications for the human body of venerable ideas about the aging world. One was the recognition of discrepancies between ancient anatomical description and contemporary anatomical observation to which Sylvius was responding. Another was an epidemiological event or, rather, set of events—namely, the outbreak of morbus gallicus and other unfamiliar epidemics that sparked controversy over the possibility that human beings were now subject to new diseases unknown to the ancients. In addition, other, more general intellectual trends that were by no means speci‹c to anatomy or medicine also served to encourage new interest in the idea of differences between the early and the modern body. In the ‹rst place, humanist learning was yielding fuller and more nuanced knowledge of the entire range of classical accounts of human origins and primitive development and of the extent of their diversity. These accounts tended to agree that the bodies as well as the social behavior of early people differed from those of their later successors, but were by no means in agreement as to the nature and causes of the physical differences. In some versions, the ease and fertility of a Golden Age produced bodies endowed with subsequently unachievable health and longevity; in others, early people were stronger than their descendants because of the rigors of primitive life. Some authors told of a sudden transformation of the human body from its original to its present form through an external cause (divine or not); according to others, change was gradual and resulted from changing human behavior. Some accounts referred to a past of mythological remoteness; others were clearly, at least in intention, anchored in historical time.5 A new interest in the nature of the giants of antiquity, whose existence was asserted both in the Bible and by some classical authors, also served to focus attention on ancient human bodies. Indeed, as Walter Stephens and Antoine Schnapper have pointed out, biblical endorsement of ancient giants was enough to secure their survival, at least in clerical circles, through most of the eighteenth century, well after the demise of most other fabulous beings.6 Renaissance debates about giants owed much to the writings of Annius of Viterbo (1432?–1502) and to his gift for forging authoritative “ancient” sources. His claim that the biblical patriarch Noah and his immediate progeny were both founders of peoples and cities in western Europe and literally giants was widely in›uential.7 One important implication of Annius’s

28


account was that postdiluvian giants of antiquity were neither a soulless monstrous race nor individual anomalies but fully human.8 In addition, reports from transatlantic voyages brought awareness of peoples whose way of life might seem comparable to the early stages of human existence as portrayed by ancient authors.9 Moreover, some of these reports also reinforced the notion, already familiar from such authoritative ancient texts as the Hippocratic Airs Waters Places and Ptolemy’s Tetrabiblos, that both climate and custom affected the physical characteristics of different human populations.10 Among the more extreme examples were widely disseminated accounts of Amazons in Brazil and of naked giants in Patagonia.11 Furthermore, in different ways, two very different faces of Renaissance and early modern antiquarianism both encouraged attention to the physical characteristics of early people. Authors interested—usually from a highly localized and protonationalistic standpoint—in the origins, characteristics, and conditions of life of the peoples of northern Europe in the remote past might draw information, comparisons, ideas, and speculations from all the types of sources just mentioned.12 At the same time, classicizing antiquarianism, which particularly ›ourished in Italy, was characterized by an insatiable interest in every detail of the customs and practices of the Greek and Roman past, including textual and material evidence relating to physical culture and body training.13 But notwithstanding elements of real novelty in the sixteenth- and seventeenth-century stores of information, controversies, and genres just summarized, the debates over whether, when, and how the human body had altered its characteristics over time rested on strongly rooted and extremely durable traditional concepts. As already noted, some of the classical accounts of the primitive state and physiology of humankind were already well known in the Middle Ages (notably the account of the Golden Age in Ovid’s Metamorphoses).14 Much more important, patristic and medieval Christian theology and anthropology—which held that along with sin, the Fall of Man brought death, disease, and physical weakness into the world— located bodily change in a single episode in the deep past. In the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, medical and nonmedical writers alike asserted that medicine was a divine gift given as a remedy for the debility natural to fallen man, a formulation that enhanced the standing of medicine by insisting on lasting physical consequences of the Fall.15 Furthermore (as Joseph Ziegler has pointed out), in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, theological expositions of Adam’s physical nature in paradise became more and more

Bodies Past

29

suffused with medical terminology used to explain the differences between pre- and postlapsarian physiology.16 The topic of change in the human body since early times had certainly entered scholastic medical discourse by 1303, when Pietro d’Abano gave extended consideration in his Conciliator to the question “whether human nature is weaker than it was in antiquity.”17 Unusually for him, his exposition of this quaestio invoked sacred as well as secular authorities, but his stated purpose was to solve the problem according to “the opinions of astrologers, philosophers, and physicians.”18 Arguments against greater debility were, he thought, the Aristotelian teachings that the world was eternal (since an eternal world presumably implied that things in the world would remain the same), that every natural motion and order of nature tends toward its own perfection, and that the human life span remained about that attested by both the Psalmist and Hippocrates. In favor of modern debility were Solinus’s assertion that the men of early times were very long-lived, bigger and stronger than those who came after, extremely beautiful, and giants; that the world, now in its seventh and last age, was growing older and decaying and that Aristotle had also said that everything grew weaker the further it was from its origin; that some statements by Aristotle about animals and by Serapion and Mesue19 about the properties of herbs no longer held good; that diseases affected people differently than in the time of Hippocrates; and that people no longer achieved the great ages of the biblical patriarchs. Pietro asserted that biblical authority proved both that human nature was physically weaker since the Fall and that life spans were longer in the time of the patriarchs. But he also identi‹ed natural, secondary causes of diminution in the strength and longevity of the human body over time: namely, effects of planetary conjunctions and of the motion of the eighth sphere; corrupt and pestiferous mixtures of the elements in some places; failure to follow good dietary regimen (a worsening problem since the time of Galen); and too youthful marriages, resulting in weaker offspring. The genre of the scholastic quaestio, together with Pietro’s own pronounced Aristotelian and astrological interests and his relative neglect of accounts of human origins and early development by ancient literary or historical writers, distinguished Pietro’s treatment from the more historically oriented contributions of later authors. Nevertheless, although the nature of his own ideas about relative chronology remains unclear, he already incorporated historicizing themes that would be characteristic of many later treatments of the topic: the implication that change in the human body was not con‹ned to the dawn of history, the com-

30


parison of descriptions by classical and postclassical medical and natural philosophical authors with modern conditions, and the assertion that human behavior was responsible for physical as well as moral deterioration continuing until the writer’s own time. Both sacred and secular sources also appear in the one of the earliest explicitly historical treatments of human origins written by a physician, the prologue of Hartman Schedel’s Nuremberg Chronicle (1493).20 Schedel drew attention to the contrast between the creation story presented in the biblical Book of Genesis and accounts by ancient authors claimed that the earliest human beings had emerged, along with animals and plants, from primal mud (through a natural process involving mixing and differentiation of the four elements) and describing the life of early humans as savage and primitive. But once having familiarized his readers with a naturalistic explanation—which he attributed to Euripides and Anaxagoras—Schedel, unlike Pietro d’Abano, ‹rmly repudiated it in favor of the biblical version. Thus, although discussions of change in the human body over time were to be greatly elaborated in the sixteenth and early seventeenth century in the light of contemporary issues and interests, some central themes and approaches had already been laid down not only by ancient authorities but also by writers working in late medieval theological, medical, natural philosophical, and historical contexts and genres.

new diseases and new anatomy The sixteenth-century controversies over new diseases and new ‹ndings in anatomy involved dramatic epidemiological events, major scienti‹c and technical innovations, and such central ‹gures in Renaissance medicine as Niccolo Leoniceno and Vesalius. As a result, these controversies have deservedly attracted considerable attention from and been well studied by historians of science and medicine.21 Here, I propose only to note a few examples of their reliance on essentially historical arguments that on occasion drew on sources or concepts from outside as well as within the tradition of learned medicine. The principal (but by no means only) debate over new diseases concerned morbus gallicus (venereal syphilis) and began with the outbreak and spread of that disease in the mid-1490s. Chroniclers and diarists who described the outbreak and noted the various popular names given the disease mostly referred to it as something new and unheard of. In the course of the next decade, the rather numerous medical authors who hastened to publish treatises, chapters

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in longer works, or consilia devoted to the subject adopted several different positions. Some identi‹ed it with one of the diseases producing eruptions on the skin named by Galen, Avicenna, or other Greek or Arabic authorities.22 Others, notably the humanist physician and anatomical writer, antiquarian, and historian Alessandro Benedetti, maintained that it was a new disease unknown to the ancients.23 The doyen of medical humanists Niccolo Leoniceno carefully compared the symptoms of the modern disease with the symptoms of diseases named by the ancient authors and found that it did not resemble any one of them. But Leoniceno nevertheless denied that new diseases could ever arise, on the grounds that “when I consider that men are provided with the same nature, born under the same heaven, brought up under the same stars, I am obliged to think that they have always been af›icted by the same diseases, nor can I think that this illness is born suddenly only now and has infected only our epoch and none of the preceding. And if someone thinks otherwise from me, what should this be said to be, some revenge of the gods? For if natural causes are examined, the same things occur thousands of times from the beginning of the world.”24 His conclusion was therefore that the disease must have been known to the Greeks, though possibly not named by them. Morbus gallicus soon became a familiar feature of the disease environment, but discussions of its origin—complicated after the 1520s by the emergence of the theory that it had arrived from the New World—continued to appear, forming part of a wider series of sixteenth-century debates over the causation and transmission of disease. Thus, Fracastoro, writing ‹fty years after Leoniceno, cited him respectfully as the ‹rst to clear up the dif‹culty over the identity of morbus gallicus but then proceeded to modify Leoniceno’s views by terming the disease new in the sense of having been unknown for many centuries previously.25 Fracastoro suggested that this and other diseases recurred cyclically through history, outbreaks being initiated by the effect on the air of speci‹c astrological conjunctions and then spread by contagion. But arguments for or against the proposition that the diseases af›icting human bodies had changed over time did not rest only on comparisons of modern symptoms with ancient descriptions, theories of natural causation (astral, climatic/miasmatic, or via contagion), or assertions about divine intervention. Some authors also took account of historical statements in the ancient sources recording changes in disease patterns or the outbreak of supposedly new diseases. Pliny several times referred to the outbreak of unknown diseases in Rome; and Celsus, a medical author highly esteemed by humanist physicians, asserted categorically, “Frequently, too, novel classes of disease

32


occur about which hitherto practice has disclosed nothing, and so it is necessary to consider how such have commenced.”26 Moreover, as Pietro d’Abano had already noted at the beginning of the fourteenth century, Galen himself employed the topos that the bodies of people of modern times, because of their overindulgence in soft living, were weaker and more subject to diseases than were the bodies of their ancestors. (Galen, like some of his Renaissance successors, used the idea to explain away a statement in an earlier medical text—in his case, the Hippocratic Aphorisms—that did not accord with his own clinical experience.)27 Writing in the 1560s, Girolamo Mercuriale combined the idea of bodies progressively weakened by luxurious living with testimonies from ancient authors about outbreaks of new diseases. A chapter on “the beginnings of medicine” that opens his De arte gymnastica asserts that early people lived simply and were healthy, subsequent overindulgence brought diseases and made necessary the invention of medicine, later perfected by Hippocrates. Nevertheless, human health continued to go from bad to worse on account of “in‹nite persuasions to gluttony, insatiable lust, and immense greed” (in‹nita gulae blandimenta, inexplebilis libido, immensaque voracitas), which brought on yet more new diseases in Roman times. Mercuriale collected a whole catena of citations from Seneca, Plutarch, Scribonius Largus, Celsus, Pliny, Galen, and Porphyry about outbreaks of new and unknown diseases, ending up with “that loathsome and very destructive gallica lues that began to trouble all regions in our own time . . . , which occurred either because of the guilt of modern humanity, or by chance, or through the will of God” (tempor0ibus nostris, exsecranda illa gallica, et paene exitialis lues universas regiones vexare coepit . . . , quod vel posteriorum hominum culpa, vel fortuna, aut Deo ita volente contigit).28 The view expressed here was doubtless widely shared, but as will become apparent in later chapters, not every attempt to address epidemiological history interpreted it as evidence of human moral or physical deterioration. Elsewhere, Mercuriale himself adduced historical evidence in support of the idea that diseases themselves could weaken over time, while the Milanese physician and polymath Girolamo Cardano opined that plague would eventually improve the physique of the human race by eliminating the weak, the sickly, and those with unhealthful habits.29 The explicit and telling criticisms of aspects of Galenic anatomy put forward by Vesalius and others in the mid-sixteenth century engendered a variety of historical arguments. The best known of these is Sylvius’s defense of Galen by way of the assertion—quoted at the beginning of this chapter—that human anatomy had changed in historic time. But the moderni, too, argued

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historically. Vesalius himself looked back to the supposedly superior achievements in anatomy by pre-Galenic ancients (invoking a kind of anatomical prehistory or, perhaps better, prisca theologia). As physicians and surgeons had done before him since at least the thirteenth century, he described his own discipline as invented and perfected by ‹gures of the remote past, then falling into obscurity and error, only to be subsequently recalled to light.30 But in the hands of some sixteenth-century writers, such traditional formulations took on new power: supported by Renaissance appreciation of the full range and diversity of ancient philosophy and science and veneration for the most ancient sources of wisdom, they became a tool for the critique of conventional school authors, notably Aristotle and Galen. In Vesalius’s case, as Vivian Nutton and others have noted, these ideas were expressed in the form of repeated claims that the anatomical knowledge, teaching, and techniques of “the ancients who taught dissection to boys in their homes” and who lived before Galen were greatly superior to Galen’s own.31 By contrast, Falloppia justi‹ed innovation by appeal to a very different historical argument: he defended his own criticisms and corrections of Vesalius by presenting anatomy as a historically cumulative science in which past errors were progressively corrected.32 The various positions were often less clearly distinguished than my summary suggests, largely because of the weight universally attached to ancient testimony. For example, an important source for those who defended the accuracy of early anatomical descriptions by arguing that the human body had changed since they were set down was a passage in the Hippocratic Airs Waters Places about an ancient people whose practice of binding the heads of their infants changed the shape of the skull. According to the Hippocratic author, the resulting deformations then “became natural” and were transmitted to future generations. But in discussing variations in the shape of the human skull, Vesalius himself did not hesitate to make use of the same passage—even if somewhat ambiguously.33 Moreover, the introductory sections of anatomy books continued to present this range of historical evaluations of Galenic anatomy to new generations of readers. By the late sixteenth century, despite sharp controversy immediately following the publication of De humani corporis fabrica (1543), Vesalius was regularly cited as a standard authority in anatomy, especially osteology. As one otherwise highly conservative medical author put it in 1589, “As far as the division of the structure of the bones is concerned, the recentiores should in my opinion be taken into account and followed.”34 But as was characteristic of Renaissance medicine, a degree of readiness to accommodate the new seldom involved willingness to discard the old. Veneration for antiquity, the

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continuing role of Galen as the principal medical authority, and knowledge of the extent and sophistication of Galen’s anatomical work combined to perpetuate respectful assessments of Galen as anatomist. Major general surveys of anatomy published in the later sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries in response to the continuing development of the ‹eld and of its place in medical education provide a number of examples of such evaluations.35 These works accepted and incorporated recent ‹ndings, to which several of the authors had contributed. Some of their evaluations are indeed strikingly ahistorical. Caspar Bauhin asserted that obscure allusions in Galen’s works showed that he had in reality known of sixteenth-century anatomical ‹ndings.36 The introduction to Culpeper’s English version of Caspar Bartholin’s anatomy, as revised by Thomas Bartholin, turns Galen into a seventeenth-century comparative anatomist and vivisectionist: “Yet is not the dissection of other creatures [than humans] therefore unpro‹table, or to be neglected by an anatomist. . . . By the cutting up of creatures alive . . . Harvey and Walaeus found the motion of the blood.”37 But other authors relied on historical arguments or evidence of various kinds. Thus André Du Laurens (1600)—echoed in English by Helkiah Crooke—cited passages in Galen’s works that mention differences between human and animal anatomy as historical evidence for his dissection of human cadavers. At the same time, Du Laurens also insisted that anatomy was a cumulative science and that it was no shame that Galen was ignorant of some things that Vesalius had subsequently found out. After all, he argued, Vesalius was ignorant of things that Falloppia had later discovered, and “every day we observe things unknown to previous centuries.”38 But the argument that human anatomy had changed since Galen’s time, supported by references to the broader concept of the declining and aging world and the claims for transmission of acquired characteristics (and the in›uence of region and climate) in Airs Waters Places also continued to appear. In 1578, John Banister, one of the ‹rst to introduce the new Continental anatomy to readers of English, prefaced his Historie of Man, sucked from the sappe of the most approved Anathomistes, in this present age with several pages in which he both presented Sylvius’s contentions in their entirety and elaborated on them with examples—drawn from more recent authors and his own practice—of anatomical variation or divergence from Hippocratic or Galenic description. In the age of Galen Eunuches did incurre the gowte, though long before, and in the tyme of Hipocrates it was not so. . . . Also the gowte, pleurisie, and in›amations of the lunges were not wont to chaunce

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before the age of xiiii yeares, but where standeth it at that stay now? Who hath not sene them all at younger years? Yea some of them at x, ix yea (though the more mervailous) at viii yeares of age. The which thyng I dare boldly testi‹e, since, in Nottingham in an. 1574, it pleased God to make me the instrument of health to divers children, of the ages before recited[.]39 In Paris half a century later, the younger Riolan also recalled Sylvius’s arguments in the course of a lengthy evaluation of the history of anatomy. After acknowledging that Galen had made errors in anatomy and urging readers to interpret him “benignly” out of respect, he added: Our ancestors should not be taxed with ignorance or carelessness if a few things in our bodies today appear otherwise than in the time of Hippocrates and Galen. But the cause of change in our bodies that vitiates the nature of the body is unknown. This should primarily be ascribed to the greatly diminished size of our bodies, as is proved by Sylvius from the books and tombs of the ancients. Then [it should be ascribed] to the brevity of our life, which was longer for the ancients.40 Riolan went on to assert that differences of region, climate, and diet affected the size, number, and location of human internal organs and were responsible for apparent discrepancies from the ancient accounts. New attention to changing patterns of disease and a new awareness of discrepancies between modern and ancient accounts of human anatomy are two of the most striking developments in Renaissance medicine. Much attention has rightly been directed to their role in movements of scienti‹c change. But as the few examples just cited show, it also seems plausible to suppose that they provided new stimuli for historical re›ection and, occasionally, inquiry within a medical context. In this way, these developments probably also contributed to strengthening the connections between the professional interests of medically trained individuals and broader questions about the human past, connections that emerged even more clearly with the participation of physicians in sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century antiquarian studies.

physicians and giants Despite Riolan’s homage to Sylvius’s belief in change in the human body since Galen’s time, he was a vehement opponent of the idea that human

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beings had once been of truly gigantic size. As a participant in one phase of the debate over giants (speci‹cally, the controversy that broke out in 1613 over the authenticity of bones claimed as those of the giant Theutobochus, king of the ancient Teutons), he forcefully denied the thesis of the aging world and the existence of ancient giants. In his view, the larger bodies of antiquity were no bigger than those of occasional exceptionally tall modern people.41 Discussions of ancient giants continued into the eighteenth century, not only because the sacred text of the Bible endorsed them, but also because chance discoveries of enormous bones seemed to yield material evidence for them.42 In the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, moreover, when distinctions between pathology and rarity and between individual anomalies and group characteristics were seldom clearly drawn, individual modern cases of gigantism might also appear relevant to the topic. Here, as in the preceding section, I do not attempt to provide a general account of these now well-known debates. Nor shall I try to trace the full history of the numerous contributions that physicians made to them. Indeed, the most famous of all Renaissance gigantologies was the literary work of a medical man, though Rabelais lies beyond the scope of this chapter. Many other—and lesser—medical writers on giants are noted in the studies of Jean Céard and Antoine Schnapper.43 I have selected a few examples to illustrate medical and antiquarian contexts in which physicians discussed giants and some aspects of the views that they expressed. But even this small sample suf‹ces to show that there was in this period no single “medical” or “scienti‹c” view of the subject. The opinions of medical participants in these debates ranged all the way from skepticism to enthusiasm. When the Heidelberg physician Johann Lange went to visit the supposed tomb of Roland some time in the mid-sixteenth century, he found the attendant monk’s story of Roland’s giant size so unconvincing that he insisted on moving the tomb slab to see for himself, after which he found only a pile of small bones.44 The seventeenth-century medicus antiquarius Jean-Jacques Chif›et is remembered for his careful description and illustration of the grave goods discovered in the tomb of the Merovingian king Childeric and, in general, for his attention to material evidence. But in contrast to Lange, Chif›et supplied enthusiastic endorsement of the giants of his native Burgundy (one of them sixteen feet tall).45 The most extended discussion of giants by a sixteenth-century physician is no doubt the Gigantomachia of Jan Van Gorp (Johannes Goropius Becanus), which constitutes book 2 of his Origines Antwerpianae (1569). Its author is better known as an antiquarian and philologist, chie›y remembered

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today for his remarkable theory that Flemish was the language of Adam. Yet most of his career was spent as a medical practitioner in Antwerp, where he was successful enough professionally to be appointed physician to Mary of Hungary, regent of the Habsburg Netherlands and sister of the Emperor Charles V.46 Antiquarian investigation of the origins of Antwerp called for discussion of giants because local legend held that the city had been founded in the time of Julius Caesar by the giant Antwerpianus, whose enormous tooth was a prized civic relic.47 In the Gigantomachia, Goropius set out to demolish this belief; in the course of so doing, as Jean Céard has shown, he produced the most extensive, overt, and thoroughgoing repudiation of all beliefs in literal giants in antiquity yet published.48 Many of Goropius’s arguments rested on his linguistic theories and on the idea that the term giant was used both in the book of Genesis and by ancient secular writers only to describe stupid, cruel, rebellious, or tyrannical character. (These aspects of his work have been closely analyzed by Céard, and the idea that the term giant referred to character evidently relates to the political thrust of Goropius’s work, which is dedicated to the duke of Alva, described in its preface as having come to the Netherlands to ‹ght against just such giants—that is, presumably, William of Orange and other leaders of the incipient Dutch revolt.) But other parts of Goropius’s exposition rest more closely on natural philosophy and medicine, allied with his interest in measurement, observation of particulars, and experience of medical practice. In the case of postdiluvian individuals described in the Bible as giants or exceptionally large, he assembled a variety of arguments on such subjects as the dimensions of the iron bed of Og, the king of Basan (Goropius pointed out that the bed must have been substantially longer than Og was tall or else the king would have hit his head on the iron frame), and the correct interpretation of ancient measures of length, in order to show that such people were three or four feet taller than other men but were not true giants.49 He then moved on to calculate the dimensions of the supposed giant Antwerpianus, embarking on a long series of estimates based on bodily proportions. From the size of the preserved tooth, he estimated the size of the two arcs of the gums and from that the size of the head; from the weight of the tooth, he estimated the weight of the body. His conclusion was that the giant Antwerpianus, if he had existed, would have had to be three times the size of Goliath and that the tooth must be that of an elephant—brought to Antwerp, he thought, by the Romans.50 In short, Goropius concluded that there had never been a race of giants, only occasional anomalous individuals, such as occurred in modern times

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and such as he himself had seen in his practice. He wrote, “Therefore we con‹dently af‹rm from the precepts of philosophy that nothing has changed in human height since the beginning of the world.”51 On grounds of medical experience, he went on to deny a whole series of related beliefs. He contended that it was not true that seminal force was getting weaker, since such force depended on celestial heat and the circular motions of the heavens; moreover, he argued, small weak parents could generate large strong offspring. It was not true, he said, that people now could not bear medicines as strong as those given in antiquity (adding that only ignorant and arrogant men with nothing but the title of medici would say otherwise, an assertion in which one hears the faint echo of a professional rivalry). Indeed, people nowadays were stronger, he argued, since, notwithstanding new diseases, bad doctors, and noxious remedies, some of them lived to old age as the ancients de‹ned it. He explained that the great ages of the patriarchs were a special dispensation of providence, but that the Psalmist de‹ned the normal span of human life as seventy years, and that Brabant had plenty of happy octogenarians.52 One of Goropius’s contemporaries in the northern Netherlands, the physician and antiquary Hadrianus Junius, who knew and used Goropius’s work, expressed essentially the same opinion on the historicity of giants (minus the linguistic theory).53 Junius (1511–75) studied medicine at Louvain, graduated in philosophy and medicine from Bologna, heard the lectures of Jean Fernel at Paris, and practiced medicine in both England and the Netherlands, where his patients included William of Orange. In the enthusiastic words of his son and biographer, Junius was “not only a physician, a poet, a historian, notable for his most exact knowledge of antiquity, but also an excellent critic.” But though Junius versi‹ed the Aphorisms of Hippocrates and translated the “medical questions” of Cassius Iatrosophista from Greek to Latin, he wrote more on humanistic subjects than on medicine. In the volume of his collected Epistolae, a few letters are consilia (and ‹ve recipients of eleven letters are identi‹ed as medici), but hundreds of other letters address friends and patrons on literary and classical subjects. His other works included a Greco-Latin lexicon, commentaries or scholia on Greek and Latin authors, a collection of emblems (which was translated into several languages), and a set of adages omitted by Erasmus.54 Junius’s principal work was Batavia, a patriotic history of the early Batavi, commissioned by the States of Holland and published posthumously in 1588. Based mostly on his reading of ancient historians, it also shows evidence of a keen interest in ancient sites and artifacts, especially in its detailed and copiously illustrated description of the Roman camp known as Brittenburg, the ruins of which

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could in Junius’s day be seen in the sea off the coast, near Leiden. Junius theorized, mistakenly, that the structure had originally been a lighthouse, later adapted for use as a fortress.55 One chapter of Batavia is devoted to the subject of giants.56 In it, the author’s primary concern was to rebut “lying foreign writers” ( fabulatores exteros scriptores) who asserted that ancient Batavia had been invaded by giants expelled from Britain by its Trojan founder Brut. How, inquired Junius rhetorically, could the Trojan refugees, suffering as they were from hunger and seasickness, have chased out a race of huge and ferocious giants? He contended that in reality, if one preferred to attend to nature rather than myth, people had always been the same size as they were now. Ancient accounts of the huge size of heroes or rulers or of ‹nding their tombs he dismissed as simply fables that had perhaps arisen through the same confusion that led medieval writers to attribute Charlemagne’s sobriquet—actually bestowed because of his deeds—to his size (which, though undoubtedly large, was not gigantic).57 As for the giants mentioned in the Bible, whether ante- or postdiluvian, Junius maintained that they were described as such because in one sense or another they were monstrous in character, not size. He then rounded up from chronicles and other sources a number of anecdotes concerning extraordinarily big or strong people in recent times, only to point out that although these individuals were exceptionally large, they were by no means giants or members of a whole race larger than ordinary humans. The term giant was, he concluded, properly interpreted allegorically. As for the story of giants who came to Holland after being expelled from Britain, Junius thought that it probably grew out of exaggerated accounts of the struggle of the AngloSaxons—many years after the supposed time of Brut—against the tyrannical and ferocious-looking Northmen.58 But notwithstanding the vigorous polemics of Goropius, Junius, and, a generation later, the younger Riolan, there is no reason to suppose that training in medicine habitually induced skepticism about ancient giants in the sixteenth or seventeenth century, as the following examples of discussions of giants within medical works will show. Unlike Goropius and Junius, Felix Platter (1536–1614) and Thomas Bartholin (1616–80) achieved renown primarily in natural science and medicine. Platter, a professor of medicine at the University of Basel, also devoted much energy to botanizing, and he collected a museum of natural history, rarities, and art that was in his lifetime one of the sights of Basel.59 Bartholin, professor of anatomy at the University of Copenhagen, was an anatomist and physiologist of some distinction who is credited with discovering the lymphatic system; his associates included major

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‹gures in the life sciences of the mid-seventeenth century in his native Denmark and abroad (he was the teacher of Steno and a close friend of Severino).60 Both Platter and Bartholin wrote extensively on anatomy and pathology, and both discussed giants in the context of anatomical abnormalities and rarities. Platter introduced the topic into a collection of observationes on various pathologies, drawn largely from his own experience. One section of this work is devoted to deformatio and describes examples of such conditions as dwar‹sm, hermaphroditism, and supernumerary ‹ngers, as well as the exceptionally large. But Platter evidently did not regard all the cases in the last category as pathological, since he included not only short-lived unfortunates exhibited for money but also the strong and active (“strenuus . . . membris validis”) exceptionally tall Lazarus von Schwendi and one Hirzel, an extraordinarily fat citizen of Zurich, who was agile, intelligent, a good dancer, and a happily married father.61 Among these rarities he also included huge ancient bones brought to his attention during a visit to Lucerne in 1584. Despite their damaged condition, he thought he recognized some of these as similar to certain human bones (one of the bones of the thumb, the clavicle, and the scapula), the shape of which was, he believed, peculiar to human beings. Subsequently, he got the local authorities to send the bones to Basel, so that he could con‹rm this judgement by comparing both the bones just named and the long bones with a skeleton in his collection and make a drawing depicting the complete ancient skeleton. Calculating proportions through this procedure, he determined that the skeleton would have been nineteen feet tall. He concluded that since no animal reached this height, the bones must have been those of a giant, for “histories also set forth that giants of that size once existed.”62 While Platter’s approach to the subject of ancient giants was strikingly empirical, Bartholin’s treatment of the topic shows a remarkable command of the previous learned literature.63 The chapter on giants in his work on anatomical rarities (1654) denies that an entire race of giants had ever existed and provides a physiological explanation for occurrences of gigantism (if defect of seed produced pygmies, excess could produce giants).64 But it draws on chronicles for examples of people of unusual size; names the major medical, antiquarian, and theological authors who had written on the controversy over biblical giants, including Goropius; mentions Pigafetta’s account of the size of the Patagonians; and notes a series of ancient and modern reports of the ‹ndings of huge bones, ending with that of Platter. Nevertheless, for all its reliance on literary sources, Bartholin’s account clearly views ancient giants

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[To view this image, refer to the print version of this title.]

Fig. 2. A supposed giant’s tooth illustrated in a mid-seventeenth century collection of anatomical rarities, Thomas Bartholin’s Historiarum anatomicarum rariorum Centuria I et II (Amsterdam, 1654), 146. (Courtesy of the New York Academy of Medicine Library.)

through the lens of his interest in local Danish antiquities and his familial and intellectual connection with Ole Worm, a remarkable role model for combining a professorship of medicine with dedication to antiquarian studies.65 Bartholin noted that tumuli and stone circles found in Denmark were commonly supposed to be the work of giants; drew attention to rings in Worm’s antiquities collection that were big enough to serve moderns for bracelets; and called on a professor of mathematics to calculate the size of the body to which a giant tooth in Worm’s museum must once have belonged, receiving the answer that the giant in question must have been three times the size of a modern man.66 Platter probably and Bartholin certainly were as skeptical of the existence of a race of ancient giants as was Goropius himself; but perhaps precisely because of their focus on anatomy and on apparent material evidence, they were willing to entertain the idea that individuals in the past had attained heights far beyond any known recent instance of gigantism. Although the

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increasing empiricism and attention to close observation that characterized medical culture from the mid-sixteenth to the mid-seventeenth century clearly shaped the contributions of physicians to debates over the historicity of giants, that in›uence was not uniform or easily predictable. In particular, interest in natural history, anatomy, and the evidence of material objects might foster attention to wonders, especially if the evidence in question was osteological.67

girolamo mercuriale and greco-roman physical culture Renaissance and early modern humanists, antiquarians, and physicians shared an interest not only in the physique of ancient humanity but also in ancient physical culture. Perhaps the most extensive treatment of this subject was Girolamo Mercuriale’s De arte gymnastica.68 As the Roman antiquarian Onofrio Panvinio put it, in words that illuminate both the work’s scope and the intellectual milieu of its author: “My friend Girolamo Mercuriale of Forlì, physician to the eminent Cardinal Alessandro Farnese, in six books described all the exercises of the ancients in an outstanding manner and with admirable erudition and diligence.”69 Mercuriale’s residence in Rome lasted only seven years, in the 1560s. Although he was then deeply involved in the city’s antiquarian culture, his experience was not in all respects comparable with that of physicians with antiquarian or historical interests who practiced or taught in Rome later in the century and remained there throughout their careers (some of whom are the subject of chapter 5 in this book). But Mercuriale’s interest in GrecoRoman athletics and physical culture, yet another variety of investigation of the ancient body, emerged during his years in Rome and clearly owed much to his contacts there. His residence in the household of Cardinal Farnese put him in the service of one of the city’s most outstanding collectors of antiquities and patrons of architecture and the arts and in touch with a notably active and celebrated contemporary circle of antiquarians. Among them were Panvinio, an ecclesiastical historian, antiquarian, and adviser on antiquities to Farnese and others; the artist Pirro Ligorio; and the scholarly Fulvio Orsini, Pavinio’s successor in the cardinal’s household, himself the owner of a vast collection of coins and medals.70 Even in an age of polymaths, Mercuriale (1530–1606) stood out as a physician of exceptional erudition who combined medical with much broader philological, historical, and antiquarian learning and interests.71 De arte gym-

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nastica and the Censura Hippocratis 72 (in which he attempted to distinguish authentic and spurious works of Hippocrates) are his two most important historical contributions. Nonetheless, his historical and antiquarian (as well, of course, as his philological) interests and methodology also emerge prominently in his collection of Variae lectiones 73 from ancient medical and natural authors as well as in some of his more strictly medical writings. Mercuriale’s historical and antiquarian interests and writings were not incidental to but, rather, an integral aspect of his long and illustrious medical career. After leaving Rome, he occupied exceptionally highly remunerated professorial chairs at, successively, the universities of Padua, Bologna, and Pisa. His patrons/ patients included, at different times, in addition to Cardinal Alessandro and other members of the Farnese family, the Emperor Maximilian II and Grand Duke Ferdinand of Tuscany. His success was no doubt due in large part to his renown as a professor, practitioner, commentator on Hippocrates, and author of works on aspects of disease and treatment.74 Yet it is equally clear that his fame, inside as well as outside medical circles, also arose largely from his philological, historical, and antiquarian writings. Indeed, it seems highly likely that the publication in 1569 of De arte gymnastica, the most antiquarian of his works, played a part in securing his initial appointment to a chair of practical medicine at Padua in that year. Thus, Mercuriale’s historical and antiquarian interests ‹tted easily into the medical learning of his time and place. To be sure, few other physicians can have had as impressive a range of intellectual contacts outside medicine (its scope perhaps partially due to what one contemporary described as the “incredible charm” of Mercuriale’s manners).75 Among his friends, acquaintances, or correspondents at different times, in addition to those already mentioned, were the philosopher and theorist of history Francesco Patrizi da Cherso, the Florentine humanist Pier Vettori, various Venetian nobles, the learned polymath Gian Vicenzo Pinelli and his Paduan circle, Aldrovandi, and (at the end of Mercuriale’s career) Galileo.76 Mercuriale, even at his most antiquarian, always wrote on topics related in some way or another to the body and health, but in so doing, he drew on a vast range of texts, contacts, and artifacts. In the six books of De arte gymnastica, Mercuriale set out to sketch the history of gymnastica—to describe the settings and equipment used in antiquity for structured physical exercise, together with the varieties of exercise practiced by the ancients, and to consider the effect of such exercises on health. From the medical standpoint, Mercuriale presented exercise as an issue of timeless signi‹cance. Its supervision was part of the task of the preservative

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part of medicine, which was charged with preventing disease, maintaining present health, and building up sickly individuals. This branch of medicine proceeded by monitoring states of the body and conditions affecting it—in effect, though Mercuriale did not at this point use the term, the “six nonnaturals” of long-standing medical tradition (food and drink, repletion and evacuation, sleep and waking, air, motion and rest, and emotions). Mercuriale justi‹ed his work by noting that while an abundant literature on the other parts of preservative medicine already existed, exercise alone had been neglected, a comment that probably refers to the disproportionate emphasis on diet in most medieval and Renaissance treatments of regimen of health.77 In reality, however, Mercuriale was far from lacking a model for writing about exercise from a medical standpoint. Galen had devoted two of his short treatises to the subject and offered a substantial discussion in De ingenio sanitatis, his principal work on regimen. It was from these works, as Vivian Nutton has pointed out, that Mercuriale—who was not the ‹rst to draw on them—derived most of his medical ideas on the subject.78 One context for his work is therefore Renaissance Galenism—that is, the interest of medical humanists in the whole range of Galen’s output and, more generally, the notion that the renovation of contemporary medicine required the full understanding and actual application of all aspects of ancient medical teaching. In even broader terms of contemporary relevance, De arte gymnastica can doubtless also be associated with Renaissance interest in the organized or didactic presentation of all kinds of bodily culture, expressed in ways ranging from the advocacy of physical exercise by humanist educators to the production of treatises on such skills as horsemanship, swordsmanship, and dancing.79 But Mercuriale’s extensive historical investigation and portrayal of ancient athletics was by no means intended as an unambiguous endorsement, let alone a call for the revival; of all ancient practice. Rather, he attempted a vivid re-creation of an aspect of ancient culture, while repeatedly stressing the distance that separated ancient conditions from those of his own time. These two aspects of De arte gymnastica—the simultaneous insistence on the timeless relevance of Hippocratic-Galenic medical teaching and on the historic distance of ancient athletic activities—shape Mercuriale’s historical arguments and use of historical evidence. Following a formula common to other Renaissance accounts of arts and sciences, the work opens with a story about origins—in this case, the origins of gymnastica and its relation to the origins of medicine. This narrative— though merely a prolegomenon to a work that consists mainly of descriptions of Roman athletics, with some reference to Greek antecedents—throws con-

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siderable light on Mercuriale’s historical assumptions and concept of historical method. As already noted, he adopted a version of the thesis of universal decline, claiming that there had been few diseases in the earliest times and that these had multiplied with evil living.80 The history of gymnastica involved a parallel story of associated physical and moral decline, complicated by characteristics attributed to different peoples and the recognition that not all ancient athletics had health as its goal. Aptitude for physical exercise was, Mercuriale thought, a natural characteristic so that, in some sense, it could be said that gymnastica had always existed. He cited descriptions of wrestling, running, and the like in the Iliad and Odyssey as evidence that the Greeks of the Homeric period had known “principles of the art of gymnastic” and had engaged in organized forms of bodily exercise both for pleasure and to obtain strength and agility for war. Subsequently, the Greeks associated gymnastica with religious ceremonies and organized regular formal competitions for prizes at Olympia and elsewhere (he gave no sign of awareness of Olympic chronology). According to Mercuriale, exercise for the sake of health began to be necessary only with the spread of luxury and ill health shortly before the time of Hippocrates, and this history was reenacted by the Romans, who, in their primitive rural and healthy state, had no need of either gymnastica or medicine but subsequently adopted games and athletics, together with exercise for health, from the city-dwelling Greeks. Mercuriale concluded that, as a result, three types of gymnastica developed: gymnastica medica, or exercises for the sake of health, the only fully legitimate kind; gymnastica bellica, or exercises preparatory for war, which were partially legitimate; and athletics for its own sake (or for the sake of competition or entertainment), which he claimed Galen had considered gymnastica vitiosa.81 The sources for Mercuriale’s description of Roman athletics fall into three categories: ancient texts, material remains, and the contributions of recent or contemporary antiquarians and scholars. Of these categories, the ‹rst is by far the largest. In a remarkable display of humanist erudition, Mercuriale assembled, from Greek and Roman authors of every period and type, descriptions of, allusions to, and anecdotes about stadia, palaestrae, public baths, gymnasia, types of exercise or sport, and famous athletes. In addition to a relatively small number of medical treatises, some of which have already been mentioned, his written sources ranged across architectural, philosophical, literary, historical, legal, and patristic writers and texts. He sometimes cited secondhand, provided scant acknowledgment of a principal source, or gave a wrong reference (an example of each practice can be identi‹ed in the sources cited for his list of hitherto unknown diseases occurring in antiquity).82 Neverthe-

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less, there can be no doubt that he commanded an impressive body of reading. For him, as for other antiquarians of the same period, the approach to the material culture and social customs of the ancients was primarily textual, in the sense that the texts formed the point of departure and provided the light in which material remains were read. In Mercuriale’s case, it is clear that even when material evidence was invoked, the main goal of the antiquarian enterprise was correct understanding of the texts.83 In general, Mercuriale tended to attribute equal and absolute historical value to all ancient written sources. His search for any and every text with a possible bearing on the history of physical exercise led him to repeat without comment the remarkable suggestion that Medea, far from being a poisoner, was actually a physical trainer who strengthened soft and effeminate men with a rigorous course of exercises and gymnastics.84 Yet he was also occasionally capable of sharp historical criticism of major authors. He remarked, for example, “But how Plato in the Critias when he describes the palace of Atlantis, which he relates ›ourished nine thousand years before his own day, writes that gymnasia existed there, which he [himself elsewhere] made a Spartan invention, I cannot exactly discern—unless we believe that the whole story of the Critias is fabulous.”85 In general, he usually sought to harmonize differences among authors; in the case of major ancient medical authorities, he also took care to represent their teaching as in line with current medical orthodoxy. Thus, when Hippocrates appears to speak against the value of exercise where Galen endorses it, Mercuriale claims Hippocrates must have been referring only to bedridden invalids, whereas Galen had healthy people in mind.86 Mercuriale drew his accounts of Greek and Roman practice primarily from his mosaic of texts. His discussion of the heating of Roman baths will serve to provide an example of his method. He began, as one might expect, with Vitruvius’s account, but he supported it with references to a term for furnace workers used in the Pandects, an allusion in Plutarch’s Symposium, and Statius’s description of the baths of the Etruscans. From these passages, Mercuriale concluded, correctly, “It could be obvious to anyone how gravely wrong are those people who believe that the heating system and the tepid room were the same thing” (Unde cuivis manifestum esse potest in quam gravi errore versentur illi qui hypocaustum et laconicum idem fuisse crediderunt). He then went on to cite references in Seneca’s Natural Questions and Ausonius’s Mosella to the pipes conveying heat, before remarking, ‹nally, “But many remains of these tubes are to be seen today at Rome in the gymnasia [i.e., the baths] of Diocletian and Caracalla” (Horum autem tuborum vestigia adhuc

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quam plurima Romae conspiciuntur in Diocletiani atque Caracallae gymnasiis).87 Here and elsewhere, an appeal to material evidence functioned as support for a conclusion arrived at by means of textual analysis and explanation of obscure technical vocabulary used by ancient writers. Nevertheless, material remains—surviving ruins, inscriptions, coins, and archaeological ‹nds, many of them in Rome itself—constitute an important category of evidence in Mercuriale’s work. In a few instances, as in that just cited, he directed the reader’s attention to ruins in Rome that were presumably available for anyone to see. On occasion, too, he referred speci‹cally to objects that he had seen himself, such as votive inscriptions from the temple to Aesculapius on the Isola del Tevere, preserved in a private collection, and a marble relief that he saw in the house of the humanist and historian Paolo Ramusio (son of the author of a famous collection of travel writings) in Padua.88 It also seems likely that some of his references to coins refer to items he had himself examined, since Cardinal Alessandro Farnese owned a large collection of ancient coins.89 But most of the material evidence drawn on by Mercuriale was mediated by antiquaries and humanists of his acquaintance. One of the most striking features of Mercuriale’s work is the visualization of Roman physical culture in a celebrated series of illustrations showing Roman athletes in action—wrestling, swimming, throwing balls, lifting weights, and so on. These depictions, which ‹rst appeared in the second edition of 1573, were in large part the work of the artist, architect, and antiquary Pirro Ligorio, the last years of whose work in Rome coincided with the period of Mercuriale’s residence in the household of Cardinal Farnese. In 1569, Ligorio moved to Ferrara and Mercuriale to Padua, but communication and cooperation between the two continued. At Ferrara, in addition to continuing to work on illustrations for Mercuriale, Ligorio designed ceilings for the ducal palace depicting scenes of athletic activity similar to those he provided for Mercuriale’s book.90 Ligorio was a complex character who devoted much labor to investigating, drawing, and describing Roman antiquities but whose work has been subject to criticism from his own time until the present day. Some contemporaries complained of what they considered his lack of classical learning, while both early and more recent critics have noted a large role of imaginative reconstruction shading off into outright invention in his representations of archaeological ‹nds and the Roman past. Mercuriale was quite clearly aware that the drawings with which Ligorio provided him were imaginative, composite, and selective reconstructions. Such illustrations were appropriate for De arte gymnastica because, as has been said of Ligorio himself, its goal was


Fig. 3. Pirro Ligorio’s depiction of ancient Greek athletes lifting weights, from Girolamo Mercuriale’s De arte gymnastica libri sex (Venice, 1601), 163. The illustration ‹rst appeared in the 1573 edition of Mercuriale’s work. Mercuriale noted that he accepted it as “true and authentic.” (Courtesy of the New York Academy of Medicine Library.)

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not to provide a precise record of archaeological ‹nds but to re-create a lost world.91 Thus, Mercuriale described illustrations of boxers and boxing gloves as pictures “taken either from reliefs on tombs or from ancient gems [that] Pirro Ligorio, who is most expert in renewing the monuments of the ancients, gave us” (vel ex sepulchrorum, vel ex gemmarum antiquarum sculpturis captas nobis dedit Pyrrhus Ligorius, in veterum monumentis renovandis peritissimus).92 Similarly, he noted that baths within a Roman bathing complex might be of various shapes and sizes, as could still be seen from surviving examples at Rome, but that “here we show them in one particular shape communicated by Pirro Ligorio from his outstanding monuments of ancient things, because we think it both the most beautiful and the most suitable to enable the intelligent reader to understand many things.”93 Moreover, whatever the unreliability of Ligorio’s evidence, Mercuriale was certainly not alone in presenting his readers with composite visual reconstructions of the ancient world. Although some contemporary antiquarian works were illustrated with reproductions of meticulous drawings of individual coins or archaeological objects, others rewarded the reader with entire scenes from ancient life.94 Mercuriale’s own awareness of the difference between an interpretative reconstruction and a drawing of an ancient object in the condition in which it was found emerges with startling clarity in his juxtaposition of two illustrations of Romans at the table: “One [is a picture that] Ligorio, an antiquarian of the greatest authority, communicated from ancient monuments; the other is from an extremely ancient and exceptionally rare marble that is to be seen in the house of Paolo Ramusio—an excellent man and most studious of good letters and all beautiful things—that I had accurately and faithfully represented.”95 In the illustrations in question, Ligorio’s detailed but imaginative depiction of well-dressed Roman diners contrasts sharply with the careful representation of partially obliterated ‹gures in the drawing of Ramusio’s relief. Indeed, as a recent study has shown, the depiction commissioned by Mercuriale of the scene on the relief, together with his own meticulous description, serves today to provide a record of the state of the monument before its subsequent further deterioration.96 Mercuriale clearly attached considerable importance to the illustration scheme of his work and controlled it with care. He both requested speci‹c illustrations from Ligorio and occasionally rejected those Ligorio supplied. Thus, possibly on moral grounds or from fear of arousing the disapproval of religious authorities, he decided not to include an illustration of gladiators ‹ghting (though Ligorio was nevertheless able to use a version of the scene for the decorations at Ferrara).97 Moreover, Mercuriale repeatedly drew the

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reader’s attention to the important contribution that Ligorio’s visual images made to De arte gymnastica, often adding complimentary remarks about Ligorio’s antiquarian expertise; and he evidently took considerable trouble to integrate the illustrations fully into the work as a whole, both by their placing and by his comments in the text. Yet for Mercuriale, material and visual evidence served at best only to clinch a historical argument originally arrived at on the basis of textual study. This was so even in the interpretation of Roman dining posture, to which he attached special signi‹cance because of his conviction that Christ and the apostles must have reclined in the same manner at the Last Supper. Immediately after referring to the illustration of Ramusio’s relief, he added triumphantly, “From this last, not only is my opinion about the true way of reclining to dine, which I perhaps the ‹rst of all proposed at Rome to Ottavio Pantagato, Onofrio Panvinio, and other very serious men, and afterward at Padua to Ligorio, without the testimony of any marble relief, and by conjecture alone (and I was supported by textual authorities) most openly con‹rmed, . . . but . . . the opinions of . . . others . . . are refuted.” This priority claim may be overstated, but Mercuriale nonetheless seems to have been among the ‹rst to apply material evidence from antiquarian studies to biblical interpretation. Later, in an appendix added to the 1601 edition of De arte gymnastica, he speci‹cally accused Orsini and Pedro Chacon of plagiarizing his work, an accusation that has been shown to have some basis, at least as regards the use without acknowledgment of Mercuriale’s depiction of the Roman dining scene from Ramusio’s relief.98 In his discussion of material remains, Mercuriale was engaged with a tradition of antiquarian scholarship that was already a century old, as is evident from his comments on the works of predecessors from Biondo to Guillaume du Choul. But he also took part in the give-and-take of a contemporary intellectual community. He questioned Ligorio’s interpretation of structures among the ruins of Hadrian’s villa at Tivoli and corresponded with Pier Vettori about the shape of the Roman discus.99 His move in 1569 from the household of Cardinal Farnese to the University of Padua placed him in contact with intellectual circles in Padua and Venice in which interest in ancient Roman architecture was especially keen following the Venetian patrician Daniele Barbaro’s work on Vitruvius and, in 1570, the publication in Venice of Palladio’s I quattro libri dell’architettura.100 It was probably readers in these circles who criticized the interpretation of Vitruvius’s description of the palaestra in the ‹rst edition of De arte gymnastica. At any rate, Mercuriale revised the passage for the second edition with the help of a group of the lead-

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ing intellectuals in the Veneto: Alvise Mocenigo, Giovan Vicenzo Pinelli, Melchior Guilandinus, and, doubtless most signi‹cantly, Andrea Palladio.101 Mercuriale thus demonstrated massive and wide-ranging textual erudition, relatively sophisticated understanding of the nature of visual representations supplied to him, and responsiveness to suggestions and criticisms from some of the best-known scholars and antiquarians of his day. Nevertheless, his medical concerns imposed interpretations on the sources, most notably in his insistence on the universal validity of the threefold classi‹cation of gymnastica into gymnastica bellica, gymnastica vitiosa, and “pure” gymnastica medica. According to Mercuriale, anyone even moderately versed in “good arts” could not fail to see how many mistakes had been made in reading the authors on the subject of gymnastica. He insisted that his schema would ensure that “what was handed down indistinctly by both Greek and Latin authors can be perfectly understood through our distinctions,” adding, “nor will any occasion of error be left for readers.”102 In attempting to isolate “good” gymnastica medica from tolerated gymnastica bellica and from degenerate gymnastica undertaken for any other reason (pleasure, sport, competition), Mercuriale was doubtless endeavoring to ‹nd a usable past—or, at any rate, an area where Galen’s advice about exercise could ‹nd a modern application. But Mercuriale also repeatedly reminded his readers that nothing like ancient conditions and places for exercise any longer existed.103 Moreover, despite his fundamentally positive belief that exercise ‹rmed and strengthened bodies, a great deal of his detailed advice about its practice and effects involved limitations and warnings. Following Galen, he assumed that the physiological basis for the effects of exercise was a change in humoral balance. From this it ensued that only those who would bene‹t from an increase in heat and moisture (i.e., those of cold and dry temperament) should exercise vigorously. Convalescents and the elderly should avoid vigorous exercise altogether, although they might bene‹t from riding in vehicles and other mild forms of movement. As for athletes, their entire lifestyle was unhealthy, as Galen had pointed out. It involved the wrong diet (too much meat), excessive sleep, too much exposure to the hot sun, too much physical activity, and unbalanced emotions. A discussion, again drawn from Galen, of the appropriate duration of exercise suggested that the right time to stop was as soon as either the breathing changed or the face reddened.104 Mercuriale also spelled out with care the particular dangers of each entry in a long list of different forms of exercise, both ancient and modern. Among modern sports or exer-

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cises, he warned not only of the dangers that might be encountered in hunting, which were no doubt real enough, but also of the hazards of playing pall-mall, an ancestor of croquet that gained popularity in the sixteenth century (you could twist your back).105 Moreover, when it came to particular forms of exercise, Mercuriale added contemporary social considerations: acrobatic gymnastics were nowadays performed only by popular entertainers; wrestling, practiced by the ancients, was now considered ‹t only for peasants.106 Amid all these restrictions, the one form of exercise that Mercuriale seems unambiguously to have approved was walking. How much bene‹t walking provides in human life wisest nature openly demonstrated, who by a certain wonderful arti‹ce and a singular and special divine providence made for us feet for no other purpose than to walk. . . . Therefore no one will fail to see with how much care walking, which either nature or God provided us with as necessary and of the highest convenience, should be looked after and encouraged. This is so especially because if any physical exercises are found that preserve health, drive away weakness acquired from disease, and strengthen a good habitus of body that are in rather frequent use among all men and all nations, one is certainly walking. Not only do the medici make walking the most important part of their gymnastica, but also all the ancients so esteemed it that among all the places destined for private exercises, both in gymnasia and elsewhere, they seem to have taken care of this and studied this more than anything else.107 The restraint of Mercuriale’s recommendations about practical applications of gymnastica medica had perhaps to do with not only the teaching of his Galenic sources but also the generally rather cautious nature of sixteenthcentury Galenic medical practice and, possibly, a realistic appreciation of what could be expected from some of his patients, especially members of the clergy and women. At any rate, in a consilium that seems directly to echo the teaching of De arte gymnastica, he advised that a cleric whose problem was obesity should be encouraged to change his “scarcely athletic habitus” (habitum pene athleticum) by taking gentle walks with plenty of rests in between.108 Perhaps, too, the restrained practical medical advice in De arte gymnastica may re›ect the dif‹culty of writing a book designed to appeal simultaneously to learned physicians, antiquarians, and any Latinate readers interested in looking after their health. Although the wording of the statement on the title

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page may be that of the publisher, there is no reason to doubt that Mercuriale’s own intentions are re›ected in its claim that the work “is very useful not only for physicians but for all those who are studious to know about ancient things and to conserve their health.”109 There are certainly elements in the work—notably speculations about such topics as whether the ancients exercised naked, whether men and women bathed together, and whether the Roman baths were sites of sexual behavior immoral by the standards of sixteenth-century Catholic society—that seem likely to have added to its appeal for a fairly broad audience, specialized in neither antiquities nor medicine.110 Moreover, the major changes that Mercuriale introduced in the second edition seem likely to have directed the attention of readers away from the medical and toward other aspects of the work. The ‹rst edition was relatively short and lacked illustrations. For the second, extensively revised—indeed transformed—edition, Mercuriale not only substantially increased the book’s length but added the lavish and fascinating illustrations of ancient forms of exercise (many of them as visualized by Pirro Ligorio). He also replaced the original dedication to Cardinal Alessandro Farnese with one to his newest and most important patron and patient, the Emperor Maximilian II. In the new dedication, Mercuriale urged the emperor to construct gymnasia and revive gymnastica, following the example of victorious rulers of antiquity, thus shifting the emphasis from preservation of health to preparation for war. Thereafter, Mercuriale continued to add to the historical material in De arte gymnastica for almost the rest of his life; but his continued medical interest in the exterior of the body and its cultivation found further expression in separate treatises on skin diseases (De morbis cutaneis, 1572) and the preservation or restoration of the body’s appearance (De decoratione, 1585).111 Though the practical applications of De arte gymnastica remained limited, the broad classical erudition and antiquarian interests displayed in the work remained an integral part of Mercuriale’s medical learning throughout his long professorial career. In 1570, just one year after securing his professorship in medicina practica at Padua, the ‹rst work that he published in his new position was the Variae lectiones, a collection of short topical essays proposing textual emendations or historical explanations of obscure passages in ancient authors.112 Numerous short treatises, letters, and sections of commentaries testify to the widespread interest of sixteenth-century physicians in such topics and methodology; much less usual, however, was the publication by a medical author of a large volume—still further enlarged in successive editions—entirely devoted to a miscellany of such material. For example, the Heidelberg physician Johann Lange, like Mercuriale, was fascinated by the

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architecture and heating system of Roman baths; but in a manner typical of many medical authors, Lange published his short expositions of this and other antiquarian topics in the form of letters in a collection of “medical epistles,” where they were intermixed with letters of a completely different type— advice for patients, accounts of Lange’s travels, and musings on medical reform.113 By contrast, Mercuriale’s Variae lectiones boldly adopted into medicine the type of erudite miscellany—explicitly and entirely devoted to the study of antiquity—that was developed and favored by leading philological humanists, notably Poliziano and Lipsius.114 (Indeed, it is perhaps not a coincidence that Mercuriale’s Variae lectiones was dedicated to Cardinal Granvelle just one year after Lipsius’s work of the same title was dedicated to the same dignitary.)115 In Mercuriale’s hands, as in those of other humanists, the freedom, openness, and variety of the genre accommodated both textual criticism and antiquarian reconstruction of past customs. Most of the topics he expounded had some bearing on medicine or health, broadly conceived. A preface by the editor laid particular emphasis on the way in which Mercuriale used his “extraordinary understanding of Greek and Latin, which he joined with the highest knowledge of philosophy, . . . for the adornment and ampli‹cation of medical science.”116 Yet this work, too, was characterized by attention to a very wide range of ancient textual sources outside medicine and, occasionally, to material remains of antiquity. To give just one example, the hazards to human health from water carried in lead pipes are discussed by way of an emendation of the Roman historian Velleius Paterculus (accompanied by a reference to the corrupt condition of the manuscripts); a citation of Vitruvius, “whose words,” Mercuriale wrote, “I have decided to set down here, as likely to be very useful to all physicians” (cuius verba tamquam medicis omnibus valde usui futura hic subscribere placet); an allusion to the unhealthy complexion of workers in lead; citations of Galen and Columella; and a reference to the surviving ruins of the aqueducts of Rome, which Mercuriale thought showed that the Romans avoided using lead pipes for drinking water. The essay may record a disagreement with Ligorio, since the latter maintained that ancient Rome had water carried in lead pipes to every house.117 Mercuriale stands out for the breadth of his search for historical evidence outside medical texts and his responsiveness to a diversity of historical methodologies, including the study of material remains and the visual reconstruction of the past. In this respect, he was clearly the bene‹ciary of his contacts with antiquarians, architects, and artists interested in ancient material and social culture. But even though the breadth of Mercuriale’s reading and

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of his historical and antiquarian interests was exceptional, it nevertheless fell fully within the approved parameters of professional medical achievement. Indeed, it secured his fame, despite the lack of evidence suggesting that De arte gymnastica had much subsequent in›uence on advice about exercise in sixteenth- or seventeenth-century medical practice.118 The point is made emphatically in the front matter of Mercuriale’s edition of the Hippocratic corpus (1588). Magni‹cently produced, with Greek and Latin on facing pages, and provided with an apparatus that included the Censura Hippocratis and Mercuriale’s scholia, this volume was evidently a major publication of the house of Junta. An editorial preface proclaims that Mercuriale’s achievements not only quali‹ed him as editor and critic of the Hippocratic corpus but made into him someone Hippocrates himself would recognize as an equal. The achievements in question are identi‹ed as, precisely, De arte gymnastica and the Variae lectiones. In particular, Mercuriale had “called back the gymnastic art . . . as if from the gates of Hades” (Gymnastices artem . . . velut ab orci faucibus revocavit).119

conring and the german body Although the treatise on changes in the German body since antiquity by the polymath Hermann Conring addresses a number of the same long-lived topics and questions dealt with by authors discussed earlier in this chapter and by many other writers (the existence of ancient giants, the progressive diminution in size of human bodies, detrimental physical results over time of alterations in behavior, and the effects of ancient and modern forms of exercise), it was the product of a very different approach and methodology. By limiting the subject to a single people that two of the most esteemed Roman historians had described ‹rsthand and by paying explicit attention to chronology, Conring arrived at a notably incisive critique of ideas about how time, the heavens, climate, and region in›uenced human bodies—ideas that were still powerful assumptions in natural history, ethnography, and medicine. This critique marks the treatise as a product of a new age and makes it an appropriate work with which to conclude this chapter. Conring’s major contributions to German law, political thought, and history have somewhat overshadowed his medical writings and long career as professor of medicine at the University of Helmstedt (as a physician, he is perhaps best remembered as an early defender of Harvey on the circulation of the blood).120 But he produced two works that brought together his medical and historical interests. Both were originally written in the 1640s (the period

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when he was most fully involved in medicine) and were expanded and reissued some twenty years later, when his historical and political interests had come to predominate. One was a treatise against the claims of some Paracelsians that their medicine originated in ancient Egypt, to which I shall return in a later chapter.121 The other was the treatise on the German body.122 In this treatise, Conring so extensively relied on historical evidence to address a topic he considered to belong essentially to medicine and natural philosophy (“speculatio isthaec in intimiora naturalis philosophiae et medicae artis”) that in different settings readers have encountered it as both a historical and a medical work. In the early eighteenth-century edition of Conring’s collected political and historical works, it immediately precedes his commentary on Tacitus and his collection of historical excerpts about the early Germans; but around the same time, it was also the subject of a lengthy commentary by a physician.123 The ambiguity is not resolved by considering the differences between the ‹rst and later editions. Although Conring’s revisions and additions transformed the dissertatio published in 1645 into the longer work in two books that appeared in 1666 (with a table of contents, chapter divisions, marginal headings, and an index), the essential character of the content remained unaltered. Apart from changes in presentation, the main differences consisted of expanded or more precise citations, the addition of new references to yet more ancient and modern authors, and some additional discussion of topics already present in the original edition. To give just one example, for the 1666 edition, Conring expanded a passage on the actual size of the early Germanic peoples by quoting, rather than merely citing, Apollinaris Sidonius; adding references to and exposition of the opinions of various medieval and modern authors who wrote on the history of the Germanic peoples, Scandinavia, and Charlemagne; and enlarging on his own views about the presence of ancient giants in Germany. Moreover, although most of the later additions re›ect Conring’s historical reading, he also introduced further medical sources and citations. Indeed, probably one of the most signi‹cant additions is Conring’s critical assessment—of which more will be said later in this chapter—of the theories relating climate and human physiology found in the Hippocratic Airs Waters Places. In both versions, therefore, Conring’s work on ancient German bodies is probably best characterized as history with a medical purpose. Indeed, as Notker Hammerstein has noted, history was for Conring always history with a purpose; and the purpose of De habitu corporum, as Conring’s preface to the work makes clear, was a plea for dietary and other reforms in the lifestyle of the modern Germans.124

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Conring’s starting point was the references to the appearance of the Germans and related or nearby peoples in Hellenistic and Roman authors, chie›y Caesar and, especially, Tacitus in the Germania, a work carefully parsed by a series of German humanists and historians since its ‹fteenth-century rediscovery.125 All the Hellenistic and Roman authors described the Germans as unusually tall, white-skinned, blue- or gray-eyed, and having red or yellow hair, a unanimity that Conring took as evidence of truthful reporting. His ‹rst step was to disentangle these reports from claims about giants, pointing out that the authors said not that the Germans as a group were giants but merely that they were taller than (depending on the writer) either the Britons, the Gauls, or the Romans. Conring acknowledged that some men of truly stupendous strength and size must once have lived in Germany, since this seemed the only possible explanation for the existence of stone circles and tumuli: no one would suppose that barbarians had at their disposal machines to move the stones. The ‹nds of huge bones reputed to be those of giants were more problematic; even if giants had lived in Germany, there was no evidence that they were of German blood. Moreover, in Conring’s opinion, such bones were older than the stone circles.126 In any case, Conring was certain there was never an entire human race of ancient giants.127 He concluded that even though a few early Germans may have reached giant height, stories about huge bones and ancient giants were often lies, the worst of all being told by the authors who followed that “disgraceful liar Turpin” (turpissimum fabulatorem Turpinum) in attributing giant size to Charlemagne and Roland.128 But even with the giants thus disposed of, the testimony of Tacitus, Caesar, and others about the physical characteristics of the Germans at the time of early Roman contact presented a problem of a different kind. Their accounts contrasted sharply with the presence of numerous short, darkhaired, brown-eyed people among Conring’s German contemporaries.129 If the Roman witnesses were considered unimpeachable (as for Conring they were), it was evident that German bodies had changed since Roman times. In exploring the causes of the change, the main theme of De habitu corporum, Conring reviewed and discarded several standard explanations derived from authoritative ancient medical and philosophical sources. The ‹rst of these was the theory—which he cited in the version found in the Hippocratic Airs Waters Places—that the common physical characteristics of a people were the result of living in the same climate (“ab aequabili regionis temperie”). He pointed out that if this were true, the original uniformity of German bodies ought to have been due to uniformity of climate. Since this supposition contradicted the reality of regional variations in the German climate, either the

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climate must have changed greatly since Roman times, which he thought improbable, or variations among bodies must always have been present, which contradicted the Roman historians.130 One may compare this analysis with that found in a widely disseminated work on the German past by Conring’s older contemporary Philip Clüver, a geographer and historian whose Germania antiqua was among Conring’s sources. Clüver, too, had pointed out that authors of the Roman period never claimed that the Germans were giants but merely said that they were taller than neighboring peoples; he also noted that the people of different parts of Germany varied in height (presumably in his own time). Nevertheless, he explicitly endorsed the theory of climate as it was presented in Airs Waters Places as the determinant of physical characteristics of human populations.131 Though Conring’s critique of the theory of climate opposed a central thesis of Jean Bodin’s in›uential Methodus ad facilem historiarum cognitionem, it seems nevertheless to have drawn on that work for some of its arguments.132 Bodin strongly endorsed climate theory as a tool of historical interpretation, but he also reworked and elaborated on the concept. He noted and attempted to resolve inconsistencies in the characteristics attributed to different peoples by ancient authors, as well as internal inconsistences in accounts by both Hippocrates and Aristotle.133 Conring made selective use of some of the same or similar examples. Thus, whereas Bodin questioned the statement in the Aristotelian Problemata 14.1 that people in both the extreme north and the extreme south were equally uncivilized, Conring, after ‹rst noting that the Problemata was a Peripatetic compilation, expressed his skepticism about Problemata 14.8, which alleges that people in both the extreme south and the extreme north are equally very tall. “If this is true,” Conring wrote, “many things have indeed changed.”134 Conring was equally dismissive of the idea that the diminution in German height was due to the aging of the world. He argued that were this so, similar diminution would affect all aspects of nature, including plants and animals, but writings two thousand years old (he does not specify which) indicated that animals were much the same in antiquity as in his own day, and Columella, who lived sixteen hundred years ago, said it was not old age but lack of fertilization and cultivation that wore out ‹elds. Indeed, Conring maintained, some animals had grown larger, not smaller: ancient sources described the cattle of the Germans as small and scrawny, whereas in Conring’s own time, German cattle were so big that they were the envy of other nations. Moreover, claimed Conring, the aging of the world ought to affect the entire human race, not just Germans, but it was doubtful whether people

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in general were any shorter than they always had been, at least since the time of the Flood, and there were no remains or testimonies of the time before that. Instead, Conring wrote, the doorways in the pyramids showed that human stature in general was much the same a thousand (sic) years ago, yet no one would now say, as Caesar did, that the Gauls are shorter than the Germans. With similar arguments, Conring also demolished the related idea, which he attributed to the Stoics, that the world was in the summer of the Great Year, so that everything was drying up and shrinking.135 In Conring’s view, the real cause for the uniform stature and coloring of the early Germans was uniformity of lifestyle, especially as regards diet and exercise. He thought that change to the varied German physique and coloring of modern experience was not recent but took place long ago, soon after the introduction of Christianity, when mores changed and “luxury and avarice grew along with piety” (Una enim cum pietatis doctrina luxuria succrevit et avaritia).136 He argued that since the characteristics of parents undoubtedly greatly in›uenced their offspring, intermarriage with other peoples—including the Romans, since even in the absence of Roman conquest, contact between the two peoples continued for ‹ve hundred years—also played a part. As a result, he concluded, the effects of changed habits became partly hereditary, an idea that echoed another formulation found in Airs Waters Places. Consequently, Conring was of the opinion that it would not be possible to attain the early uniformity of bodies even if the early manner of living were reintroduced.137 Yet that belief did not prevent him from trying. Much of the rest of De habitu corporum is given over to admiring descriptions of the food, clothing, sexual practices, and exercise of the early Germans as contrasted with the decadent habits of their seventeenth-century descendants (Tacitus’s more critical remarks about the early Germans ‹nd no echo).138 The medical theory underlying the exposition is the idea that the tall stature and other physical characteristics attributed to the early Germans were the result of the body’s moisture and heat, terms that are more likely to refer to the concepts of radical moisture and innate or vital heat than to standard Galenic notions of bodily temperament.139 Conring claimed that the proper balance of moisture and heat was preserved and fostered by practices that his Roman sources ascribed to the early Germans: delayed sexual activity, infrequent sexual intercourse, and, above all, a diet rich in milk products and meat. (The importance Conring attached to dairy foods led him down a long series of antiquarian byways in which he attempted to determine whether various ancient authors had been referring to butter, cheese, or some kind of sour or fermented milk.)140 The physical activities reported of the early Ger-

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mans were equally wholesome: hunting, swimming, and practicing for war were types of voluntary, moderate exercise that built large, strong bodies, as contrasted with the rigid discipline and exhaustion involved in Greco-Roman athletics. The scanty clothing and bedding of the early Germans and their consequent ability to tolerate cold also preserved the desired temperament.141 Conring devoted the remainder of the treatise to pointing out that, by contrast, modern diet and habits involved far too many things that not only dried the body but heated it to excess: not enough milk and far too much bread, sweets, condiments, and complicated cookery; the replacement of the wholesome beer of the early Germans by inferior modern beer or, worse still, wine—often adulterated with all kinds of substances—and spirits; and instead of tolerance for cold, multiple layers of clothing, soft warm beds, and overheated houses. According to Conring, bodies thus subjected to heating and drying were apt to be shorter, weaker, and—a case made with more evident dif‹culty—different in coloring. The use of the virtues of the early Germans as a reproach to his own people was, whether Conring recognized it or not, probably quite close to Tacitus’s own intentions. But in Conring’s case, the rhetoric of the stark contrast between the early and the modern German way of life and the physical consequences of each concealed a more restrained message. By specifying that he was not condemning moderate use of wine or all use of bread, he took care to signal to his readers that he was not literally advocating a return to the lifestyle described by Tacitus.142 He also did his best to explain away some of the habits ascribed to the early Germans that would not have appealed to his contemporaries. He insisted that the former did not bathe only in very cold rivers but also sought out hot springs and, moreover, that it was not true, as some ancient authors claimed, that they dipped their newborn infants in frigid rivers—or if they did, it was only for magical purposes (similar to the still current practice of swimming witches) and would not have hurt the infants much.143 Conring also tried to expunge the impression left by some striking visual images—namely, the splendid illustrations in Clüver’s Germania antiqua—by denouncing Clüver’s assumption that ancient comments on German nudity referred to uncovered genitals.144 Conring described his treatise as addressing a problem about human physiology and anatomy that could not be resolved by arguments derived from medicine and natural philosophy alone and as written in a more rhetorical style than he normally used for medical or philosophical works.145 The work’s basis in medical theory has already been noted; it also draws on a few observations that may re›ect experience from medical practice. Conring’s enthusiasm for milk consumption as a predictor of height was in part because

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he had noted that the most rapid period of human growth was that of nursing infants and that long nursing helped to ensure survival and health through early childhood.146 Medical experience as well as moralizing seems to lie behind his condemnation of adulterated wine and of the consumption of wine and spirits by children and pregnant women.147 But other than the extensive discussion of a key passage in the Hippocratic Airs Waters Places and a handful of references to Galen, his citations of medical authorities are surprisingly few.148 The most notable natural philosophical element in De habitu corporum is the attack on the theory of climate. Apart from Aristotle and Pliny, both cited numerous times and extensively relied on, Conring’s list of natural philosophical sources is also short.149 The rhetorical element in De habitus corporum emerges chie›y in citations of or quotations from numerous ancient literary works, though these are often treated as sources of historical evidence (as in the case of the fourth-century poet Apollinaris Sidonius’s comments on the appearance of the Germanic peoples).150 But Conring drew the main support for his arguments from historiography and the literature of travel. In addition to Bodin’s Methodus, his cited sources included an array of ancient, medieval, and modern histories, travel accounts, and works of reference that far outnumber the works on medicine and natural philosophy combined.151 On occasion, Conring’s con‹dence in Caesar and Tacitus led him into some remarkably strained historical arguments. As an example, perhaps one need only cite his explanation that the absence of agriculture noted by the Roman historians accounted for the white skin of the early Germans: he concluded that without farm labor, they— unlike most of their seventeenth-century descendants—did not get sunburned.152 Nevertheless, the purposeful use made of history in the revised edition of this medical and philosophical work strikes the reader. What most clearly distinguishes this treatise from earlier discussions by medically trained authors writing on the theme of change in the human body over time is the extent of its attention to historical chronology and the range of ancient, medieval, and modern historical works on which it draws. Between the late ‹fteenth and the mid-seventeenth century, physicians found many reasons to discuss the anatomy, physiology, life span, diet and exercise, and susceptibility to disease of human beings in the remote past. The topos of an aging world, defense or critique of ancient anatomists, controversies over the possibility of new diseases, biblical and classical statements about the existence of ancient giants, occasional paleontological ‹ndings, antiquarian studies of Greek and Roman athletics, comments of ancient historians or poets on

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the physique of various peoples—all could and did stimulate discussion of ancient and modern human bodies. As the examples in this chapter have abundantly demonstrated, physicians wrote on all these topics, though only the most medically specialized of them were the exclusive preserve of physicians. And physicians who wrote on any aspect of the ancient human body addressed a subject at once historical and medical.

Chapter Two

HISTORY AND HISTORIES IN MEDICAL TEXTS

For even though the word “history” may simply mean “narrative” in Greek, really it is certain that there are three kinds of history: divine, natural, and human. Divine history is that in which sacred things are related, as is the case with the sacred books or Bible. Natural history is found in such books as Aristotle’s History of Animals, Theophrastus’s History of Plants, and Pliny’s Natural History. Human history is found in those books that relate either the actions of people or the nature of the human soul (just as Aristotle called his book On the Soul a history), or the whole structure of the human body.

T

hese words introduce not (as one might imagine) one of the many Renaissance treatises on the ars historica but a medical commentary. They appear at the beginning of Girolamo Mercuriale’s exposition of the case histories in books 1 and 3 of the Hippocratic Epidemics. Although his formulation reads like a direct echo of Bodin’s famous threefold classi‹cation of history into divine, natural, and human, Mercuriale gave it a decidedly medical twist when he made human history include psychology and anatomy as well as past events.1 Not only that, he went some way toward adding the Hippocratic case histories as a fourth category. He explained that although accounts of cases found in works of Galen as well as in the Hippocratic Epidemics did not fall under one of the three categories named and were thus not “precisely” histories, they were nevertheless a form of truthful narrative and 63

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were approved by Galen. What distinguished the Hippocratic histories, according to Mercuriale, was that Hippocrates’ narratives—unlike those of “other historians” (aliorum historicorum), who related all the contingent circumstances—“never told everything.” He illustrated his contention by comparing Hippocrates and Thucydides: the latter recorded everything about the plague of Athens, even things well known to uneducated people, whereas Hippocrates (assumed to be referring to the same epidemic) left out many things but included insights unknown to the ignorant. Because the comparison had originally been suggested by Galen, it is also one of many examples of Galen’s own interest in history.2 History found its way into Renaissance medicine in many guises. Chapter 1 of this book traced the medical response to a historical concept with physiological and anatomical implications. This chapter examines genres of medical writing notably hospitable to narratives, records, or exempla from the human past (individual or collective) in such forms as stories of patients and disease, anecdotes about ancient physicians, or references to general history and historians—all of which are adumbrated in Mercuriale’s remarks about history, histories, Hippocrates, and Thucydides. Traditions of medical learning, practical needs of medicine, and the general in›uence of humanistic education all contributed to a growing attention to many kinds of history in medical writings. The word historia itself, which connoted for Renaissance authors an account of the results of an inquiry, whether into nature or into the human past (so that descriptions of physiological processes, anatomical formations, and, later, investigative procedures were also often termed historiae), linked areas of knowledge that later centuries came to regard as wholly distinct.3 In addition to being heirs of a disciplinary and scienti‹c tradition resting on ancient texts ascribed to revered founders, physicians were also practitioners, who assembled and drew on exempla and narratives of experience (their own and those of their predecessors) for professional purposes. And they were simultaneously participants in a broader humanist community in which civil and religious history were, along with antiquities, increasingly a focus of intellectual attention. Undoubtedly, all these ways of understanding and making use of the past could and did intersect, with the proportions of the mix differing in individual cases. This chapter’s analysis of genres and individual works that represent the presence of histories of the human past in Renaissance medical writing—collections of cases or topical essays, autopsy reports, one branch of Hippocratic commentary, and a single plague treatise—is highly selective. Indeed, a simi-

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lar investigation of other genres of medical literature (e.g., works on anatomy and surgery or commentaries on books of Galen), which could not be attempted here, might add further evidence. No attempt has been made here to survey incidental historical material in medical books, such as the eightpage excursus into Roman and medieval history prefacing Girolamo Fabrizi d’Acquapendente’s De formato foetu, in which Fabrizi traced the descent of the dedicatee Count Renato Borromeo from the ‹rst-century Roman emperor Vitellius and followed the martial exploits and religious devotion of members of the Borromeo family over the centuries.4 Yet the works discussed in the following pages show that in a wide range of different types of ‹fteenthto seventeenth-century medical writing, the incorporation of narratives, records, or memories from the human past did not serve as mere ornament or compliment but was integral to the author’s project.

medical collections: consilia, consultationes, epistolae, variae lectiones, cures, observationes Several types of medical collection that were either new or took on new importance in the ‹fteenth or sixteenth century re›ected increased attention to records of past experience. As they compiled volumes bringing together such items as consilia (advice for individual cases), accounts of notable cures, letters and essays on topics of medical interest, or, later in the sixteenth century, observationes, physicians were able to develop the record of experience as well as medical versions of the humanist miscellany. Hence, the medical literature of the ‹fteenth century and still more the sixteenth was rich in accounts of patients and diseases—that is, narratives about events in human lives. Not until the sixteenth century (and not always then) were such accounts termed historiae. But narratives about individual patients and cases, autopsy reports, and accounts of epidemics multiplied in medical works of many kinds. The growing signi‹cance of descriptive narrative was indeed one of the most striking changes in medical literature between the ‹fteenth and the early seventeenth centuries. To be sure, in sixteenth-century medical writings, references to experience (experientia, experimentum) may still refer to assertions found in earlier texts as well as to personal experience. Nevertheless, late medieval and Renaissance medical authors appear to have become progressively more attentive to the description of speci‹c cases of injury or illness presented as historical and medical events. Thanks to the work of recent scholars, it is now becoming possible to grasp the nature and scope of this development and to map the contexts and genres in which it emerged.5

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Although the role and prestige of narrative of various kinds within medicine seems greatly to have expanded after the mid-‹fteenth century and, in so doing, no doubt re›ected developments—especially the growing interest in history—in the broader humanist culture, there were also important precedents in the previous two centuries. As a rule, scholastic medical writers had privileged theoria, for which they claimed links with natural philosophy, and possession of scientia (de‹ned in Aristotelian terms as certain and universally true knowledge reached by syllogistic reasoning from accepted premises) over the multifarious and uncertain particulars of patients, diseases, and remedies that made up practica. Nevertheless, traditions and models of narrative about individual cases of disease, epidemics, and the opening of bodies after death also existed in a diversity of medieval and early Renaissance contexts, both medical and nonmedical. Contexts outside medicine included miracle collections, canonization processes, letters, chronicles, and works of literature (famously, the prologue to the Decameron). Medieval physicians were likely to be aware of other forms of narrative about disease and death, and exempla served to drive home points in both medical literature and sermons. In medical literature, individual patients appeared in the thirteenth century, apparently independently of ancient antecedents, both as the subject of occasional anecdotes within medical (or more often surgical) texts and as the intended recipients of consilia, which recorded medical advice to individuals.6 The western European response to the fourteenth-century plague pandemic gave rise to a new medical genre, the plague treatise; such treatises were often framed in the context of a particular local epidemic. In the ‹fteenth century, medicine’s link to history through narrative about patients and cases grew stronger as some medical as well as surgical authors showed themselves ready to include such narratives or anecdotes. Michele Savonarola provides a salient example. In his writings and in his career as professor of practical medicine at Padua and, subsequently, physician at the Estense court of Ferrara, Savonarola moved between an academic environment and a courtly, humanistic, and civic one. He wrote both treatises on practical medicine and historical works on nonmedical subjects, and his responsibilities as court physician involved providing general as well as medical advice to a ruler. His medical works in both Latin and the vernacular incorporate narratives of cases and exempla, but as a recent study has shown, such incorporation is much more freely done in the vernacular treatises.7 Savonarola’s career and writings suggest some of the ways in which the role of court physician, the in›uence of early humanism (Latin and vernacular), and the Italian civic environment could foster and strengthen links between


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physicians’ appreciation of history and the role of narrative and example in medical writing. Of the new genres of medical collection, consilia were presumably the ‹rst to emerge and were in some ways the most durable. Collections of the consilia of famous physicians began to be assembled in the fourteenth century, multiplied and expanded in the ‹fteenth, and came to serve as medical books. By the second half of the ‹fteenth century, some leading physicians were leaving hundreds of these productions to be collected, arranged, and edited by their pupils or heirs. Moreover, many items in late sixteenth-century collections described as containing epistolae medicinales or consultationes still retain the characteristics of consilia. Since consilia are essentially recommendations for treatment, they relatively seldom contain much in the way of history of either the patient or his or her disease and never mention outcome. Furthermore, the advice they contain, although nominally tailored to the individual, is usually drawn from standard medical authors.8 Nevertheless, they focused attention on individual cases, and the format evidently did inspire some authors to narrative about the patient and the disease, as in the following example from the ‹rst half of the ‹fteenth century. The noble gentleman Giovanni di Barzinona, who is about thirty, has already for several years been much more worried, fearful, timid, and disturbed in his mind than he used to be, because of the great fear he suffered, his heavy involvement in important business affairs, and the sadness brought about by the condemnations he underwent some years ago. He is especially worried about the state of his body and health[;] . . . he gets panic attacks and sweats and is terri‹ed of staying alone at night and sometimes reaches the point of talking to himself and weeping.9 Collections of “medical epistles” usually consisted of a mixture of essays on various topics and advice for individual cases. As noted in the previous chapter, medical authors also contributed to a type of miscellany—usually bearing the title variae lectiones or something similar—that addressed selected passages in ancient medical and other authors. Both these forms of humanistically in›uenced miscellany were new genres of medical literature in the sixteenth century.10 Both offered medical men the opportunity to write short essays on a variety of freely chosen topics. Many (probably most) medical epistles discussed aspects of diagnosis or treatment or were in effect consilia, but others were vehicles for medical philology or the pursuit of anti-

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quarian interests. Thus, the “epistles and consultations” of the Padua professor Orazio Augenio (1527–1603) included a lengthy disquisition on the meaning of Greek and Latin names for various cereals, with citations not only of medical authors but also of Columella and Palladius and with discussion ranging from “that grain that the Roman people used continuously for three hundred years” to German methods of bread making.11 One physician who gave over an unusually high proportion of his Epistolae medicinales to antiquarian or historical topics was Johann Lange. As is announced in his preface, he devoted many of his “epistles” to the reform of medicine and surgery and to the need to exclude pseudomedici from medical practice. But he also found room for essays in which he expatiated on the material of ancient drinking vessels, on Egyptian magic or magical medicine, and on the origins of alchemy and distillation, of astrological ephemerides, and of Egyptian, Chaldean, Greek, and Arabic medicine, and, as already noted, on Roman baths; in one, he related the historia (his term) of a fasting girl who ate nothing for three years. Lange’s antiquarian interests may date from the second decade of the century, when, like many others from German-speaking lands, he traveled to Italy for his medical degree. But his essays on the subject are products of his later career, spent in Heidelberg as court physician to successive electors.12 Of course, in the eyes of the authors and their contemporaries, all the philological, historical, or antiquarian topics just named had some relevance to current medical knowledge, ideas, and practice. The two types of medical collection in which narratives about individual cases of disease predominated were those of claimed remarkable cures and, especially, observationes. Particularly signi‹cant may be the appearance of collections of physicians’ narratives of their own cases. Interest in marvelous or hidden powers of nature seems to have provided the impetus—or pretext— for some early anthologies of this type, such as Antonio Benivieni’s collection, ‹rst published in 1507, of cases (most of them his own) of diseases and cures that he considered to have “hidden and wonderful” causes.13 Collections bearing the title observationes medicae or something similar began to appear in the second half of the sixteenth century and multiplied in the seventeenth. In the early modern medical vocabulary, as Gianna Pomata has noted in a seminal article, the term observatio was virtually interchangeable with historia and, like historia, applied equally to the narrative of an individual case as it developed over time or to anatomical description.14 The authors or compilers of collections of observationes assembled their content from both categories, drawing on their own experience and often on a variety of other sources. Some of these collections were very large: two of the most notable, those of Pieter van


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Foreest and Johann Schenck von Grafenberg, appeared in multiple volumes published at intervals over their authors’ lifetimes. Some observationes might include contemporary social and historical context, as in Foreest’s account of the epidemic that broke out during the Spanish siege of Haarlem in 1572. Others continued to emphasize rare or striking medical conditions. Thus, the full title of Schenck’s collection promised “rare medical observations . . . in which new, hidden, remarkable, and monstrous examples about anatomy, causes of illnesses, signs, events, and cures from both ancient and more recent physicians . . . are propounded.” Yet Schenck, like Foreest, seems to have written primarily with practical—or, at any rate, didactic—purposes in mind, since his work is organized according to parts of the body in the traditional headto-toe arrangement.15 Another indication of increased interest in narrative of cases was the appearance of didactic works instructing the reader—presumably a medical student or neophyte physician—how to prepare a case history. Giovanni Argenterio (1513–72) and Girolamo Capivaccio (1523–89) seem to have been among the earliest to present such instructions: both wrote entire treatises on the ars consultandi—that is, the art of presenting a case in a joint consultation, beginning with the historia casus. Argenterio showed the reader how to move from general considerations to an individual case history by following a lengthy account of a particular condition (pleurisy) with a case history described as “a particular example drawn from the foregoing.”16

autopsy narratives Physicians who composed or compiled accounts of autopsies recorded individual historic events occurring at a speci‹c time and, in some instances, provided substantial information about completed human lives. In Italy and parts of France, the practice of opening bodies after death seems to have been relatively common in a variety of contexts by the fourteenth century or before, although it was slower to spread to some parts of northern Europe. In addition to the relatively rare practice of dissection as part of medical education (introduced at Bologna soon after 1300), other motivations for opening the body included preparations for elite funerals, attempts to discover what disease had caused death (often at the request of the deceased’s family and friends), a search for physical phenomena of mysticism in the bodies of holy women and men, and investigation of suspected foul play.17 From the fourteenth century onward, physicians were among those who recorded some of these events in brief narratives. Subsequently and especially after 1500, such

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narratives multiplied, but there seems to have been little attempt to collect or to systematize this type of material throughout the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. The anatomist Volcher Coiter’s inclusion of a sequence of a dozen autopsy narratives, arranged from head to toe, in a work published in 1573 constitutes a partial exception to this generalization. Yet neither this nor any other collection of autopsies made before the publication of Théophile Bonet’s Sepulchretum in 1679 approached the scale of that vast assemblage of autopsy narratives arranged according to diseases of every part of the body from head to toe.18 Instead, earlier accounts of autopsies in medical literature characteristically appear as isolated items or are embedded in treatises devoted to other subjects or in general collections. They occur at random in the middle of medical and surgical treatises, anatomy books, and collections of observationes. Nor are they to be found only in medical writings. Jacques Cartier’s Relation, describing his second voyage to Canada in 1535–36, includes an account of the postmortem ‹ndings from the autopsy of one of his companions who died of disease. Other examples are inserted in biographies of famous personages (e.g., Gassendi’s life of Peiresc) and play a part in canonization proceedings (that of Filippo Neri being a notable instance).19 But although sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century autopsy narratives are not rare, one encounters them much less frequently than other types of writing on individual cases, such as consilia, case histories, and observationes about living patients. Hence, the written record of autopsies in this period is probably relatively restricted, even as it is scattered through a wide and still incompletely mapped body of material. But the composition of autopsy narratives resembled that of narratives of individual diseases and cures and, indeed, of diagnosis and prognosis itself (and of astrological judgments in an age when astrology was a respected sister discipline of medicine): all involved looking back at past events or experiences and assembling them into a coherent story.20 Although the origins and motivations for postmortem opening of the cadaver in contexts other than medical education long predate 1500, sixteenth-century developments in anatomy profoundly in›uenced autopsy narratives. Anatomy and autopsy frequently—though by no means always— shared tools, techniques, and some degree of common understanding of what constituted a “natural” body as distinct from one that was unhealthy, deformed, or diseased (or in the case of putative saints, miraculously altered). But anatomy, unlike autopsy, involved a measure of generalization, since its goal was understanding of the general design of the ideal human body (how-


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ever imperfect the actual cadavers dissected in the schools). By contrast, autopsy addressed above all the particular—the condition of one body at a speci‹c point in time and, often, the sequence of events that brought it to that state. Thus, autopsy narratives re›ect anatomical knowledge and practice, but they also seem quite closely related to other genres of medical writing that report a sequence of events or recount claimed experience. That Bienvieni’s collection of “hidden and wonderful” causes of diseases and cures contains a few accounts of autopsy, interspersed among the stories of cures that Benivieni had himself brought about and his testimonies to miraculous cures performed by a follower of Savonarola, is by no means incongruous. Indeed, autopsy accounts resemble other types of narratives of cases in several signi‹cant ways. The subjects of the autopsies were not the condemned criminals, friendless strangers, or paupers who provided the cadavers for anatomical teaching or investigation. Rather, they were usually individuals of relatively elevated—sometimes very elevated—social status. As such, they were likely to have been patients of learned physicians and literate surgeons. Practitioners involved in autopsies had in many cases attended the deceased in life. As a result, the subsequent narratives often include detailed accounts of the patient’s last injury or illness and of its treatment as well as of the postmortem. Thus, Johann Wier’s account of his autopsy of the bishop of Cologne combined a detailed description of the prelate’s last illness with a theme often found in anecdotes about cure: namely, the wrong treatment prescribed by previous practitioners—in this case, a Paracelsian—before the author is called in.21 But as this example shows, although autopsy narratives, consilia, and anecdotes about a physician’s or surgeon’s cures are all likely to include, to a greater or lesser extent, personal information about a patient, description of illness or injury, and an account of treatment, the emphasis is usually very different in each genre. In anecdotes about cure, the stress is on the author/practitioner’s skill and on successful outcome; in consilia, it is on details of the recommended treatment, often to the exclusion of more than the barest description of the patient and the problem. In autopsy narratives, the main topic is postmortem ‹ndings. But in this ‹nal record of a completed life, physicians sometimes also included biographical information and moral (and sometimes physiognomical) judgment in ways that seem to link autopsy narrative to other forms of biographical writing. For example, the Paracelsian Theodore Turquet de Mayerne accompanied his account of the dissection of Isaac Casaubon with an admiring biographical portrait and narrative of the last illness of the Calvinist scholar. In it, Mayerne not only related how the symptoms of the bladder

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tumor that caused Casaubon’s death progressively developed during the last months of his life; he also drew on an old topos to connect the illness to Casaubon’s absorption in scholarship, thus making it exemplify his moral character.22 Presumably, too, in instances involving autopsies of rulers or other powerful individuals, physicians must have been well aware of the signi‹cance of their reports in a larger political, social, and, indeed, historical context. Although a medical author’s willingness to discuss the death of his own patient inspires a certain con‹dence in his truthfulness, autopsy narratives are far from unproblematic in other respects. In many cases, an unknown amount of time and, sometimes, distance seems to have intervened between whatever notes were taken on the spot and the narrative that survives. A rare instance in which the original brief report and its subsequent elaboration have both survived provides a suggestive—if extreme—example. The notes taken during the autopsy of St. Filippo Neri by one of the attending physicians were approximately two hundred words long; he ‹nally developed his report into a forty-three-page treatise published eighteen years after the event.23 Moreover, physicians who wrote accounts of autopsies had not necessarily performed any of the actual dissection (frequently carried out by surgeons), nor did they always have much previous experience of anatomical dissection even as a witness. The circulation of autopsy accounts from one author to another nevertheless suggests that they could over time acquire the status either of a kind of experimentum—that is, an empirical ‹nding, though one accepted on the basis of textual evidence—or perhaps simply of an event of human history, particularly when a famous patient was involved. For example, the report of the autopsy of Francis I of France, who died in 1547, found its way into Schenck von Grafenberg’s observationes published some ‹fty years later. It remains unclear whether Schenck found this brief report worthy of inclusion in his vast collection of descriptions of cases and conditions because of the royal status of its subject, the renown of the participating physicians (one of whom was the Galenic commentator Martin Akakia), or the medical ‹nding that none of the king’s maladies were of a nature to be passed on to his children. Perhaps all three factors were in play.24

the epidemics, airs waters places, and new hippocratic commentary Much is now known about the increasingly prominent role of narrative, particulars, and description in sixteenth-century genres of medical writing more


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or less directly related to practice. But similar characteristics also appear in some of the substantial body of new commentary that was a prominent feature of Renaissance Hippocratism. While more doubtless remains to be learned about Renaissance Hippocratism, the work of numerous scholars has mapped its main contours.25 Reverence for Hippocrates as a founder of medicine, access to a considerable number of Hippocratic texts in Latin translation, and the central role of a few of them in medical education long antedated the rise of medical humanism in the late ‹fteenth century. For a time, early printings perpetuated (and enlarged) the medieval collection of short works known as the articella, which included several Hippocratic treatises.26 The narrow range of texts established as canonical by statutory academic curricula invariably included the Aphorisms. Indeed, the durability of such curricula ensured the continued steady production of commentaries on the Aphorisms.27 But Renaissance translations and editions, which constituted almost the entire surviving Hippocratic corpus, signi‹cantly enlarged the numbers and scope of available Hippocratic texts and brought fresh attention to hitherto neglected Hippocratic works. Among the parts of the Hippocratic corpus that were in some sense “new” in the early sixteenth century—that were little or only partially or indirectly known in the Middle Ages, were not commented on by scholastic authors, and were not standard in university curricula—were two works of especial signi‹cance for the relation between medicine and history: the Epidemics and Airs Waters Places. The Epidemics contains some of the most famous ancient examples of narratives about the course of disease in individuals, while Airs Waters Places includes substantial ethnographic and supposedly historical material.28 Throughout the sixteenth century, commentary on authoritative ancient texts remained a standard and highly in›uential form of medical teaching and exposition (in the university context, for courses on practica as well as those on theoria). Thus, a sampling of commentaries on these two texts adds a further dimension to the complex picture of the presence of histories and history within the specialized literature of medicine. As is well known, Renaissance medical interest in the corpus was simultaneously practical and philological. In some cases, moreover, interest in Hippocrates implied a measure of willingness to depart from standard academic medicine. The brevity and obscurity of Hippocratic texts offered the opportunity for free interpretation, while authors in search of a respectably ancient precedent for criticism of Galen were able to point to Hippocrates as an earlier and superior medical authority.29 At the same time, it seems clear that interest in some Hippocratic treatises (notably, but not exclusively, the Epi-

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demics and Airs Waters Places), as well as in some of Galen’s accounts of his own cases in such works as On Prognosis, was closely related to the growing attention to cases, description, and particulars of all kinds. Yet these developments by no means precluded traditional forms of medical exposition. On the contrary, attention to newly available or lesser known texts demanded new commentaries. Medical commentaries are indeed part of another, much larger story, that of the practice of and importance attached to textual commentary in many different branches of Renaissance learned culture. The body of such commentary produced in the ‹fteenth and sixteenth centuries was substantial in both scope and signi‹cance. Recent work on education in the humanities and natural philosophy suggests the desirability of looking closely at the actual uses, for both authors and audiences, of works expounding classical texts.30 As studies of both Renaissance Aristotelianism and Renaissance commentaries on a medieval Arabo-Latin medical text, Avicenna’s Canon of Medicine, have shown, the content of commentaries even on long-known standard works may often re›ect contemporary debates or innovations.31 At the same time, Renaissance intellectuals responded to “new” works—whether new editions in the original language, new Latin translations, or hitherto entirely unknown or neglected literary, historical, philosophical, and scienti‹c classical texts—with a ›ood of textual exposition. New disciplines, new scholarly preoccupations, new institutions, and new ideologies also all fostered the production of commentary. Cases in point are the vastly expanded—in effect, new—discipline of medicinal botany, in which one of the most successful works of the century was Pier Andrea Mattioli’s commentary on Dioscorides; the philological and historical interests of humanists; the establishment of the Jesuit colleges, for which the Coimbra commentaries on Aristotle were written; and the biblical and patristic scholarship of the era of the Reformation.32 In medical teaching, new Latin versions of well-known texts, translations and editions of hitherto unknown or neglected ancient works, changing techniques of exposition, and varying levels of attention to Greek texts and terminology transformed lectures and commentaries after about the 1520s . Consequently the literature of Renaissance Hippocratism, although considerably smaller than that of Renaissance Galenism, includes a substantial body of new Latin commentary. No individual “new” treatise gave rise to more than a few commentaries, but collectively these works constitute a considerable interpretive enterprise. Some commentaries—for example, Leonhart Fuchs’s on book 6 of the Epidemics—are primarily a close philological examination of the


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Greek text.33 Other commentaries draw on Hippocratic teaching to address central intellectual issues of their own day. Thus, Airs Waters Places provided in›uential support for the belief that the physiological and psychological attributes and the political characteristics of peoples are all environmentally determined. Doubtless, too, the geographical and ethnological parts of the work satis‹ed the Renaissance fascination with accounts of travel and cosmography. The appeal of the Epidemics—or, as it was alternatively known, De morbis popularibus—to contemporary medical interests included its relevance to what was widely perceived as an age of epidemic diseases. In addition, both the case histories and epidemiological narratives were taken as a source of rules valuable for diagnosis and prognosis. Of course, in the interpretation of Hippocrates, Galen—whose commentaries on Hippocrates were among his most admired works—remained the dominant in›uence. As a result, as Vivian Nutton has pointed out, most sixteenth-century readers encountered Hippocrates via Galen, directly or indirectly. Even the efforts of Girolamo Mercuriale and, before him, Cardano to distinguish genuine from spurious Hippocratic works largely rested on Galen’s opinions, or what Cardano and Mercuriale took to be such.34 In terms of medical content, sixteenth-century expositions of Hippocrates usually present a Hippocratic-Galenic synthesis largely shared by both scholastic and humanistic medicine. In addition, the traditions and current requirements of medical education often ensured the presence of themes and arguments common to contemporary or earlier expositions of standard texts, alongside material speci‹c to the treatise being commented on and to the commentator’s experience and interests. The enthusiasm of Renaissance humanists or Hellenists for Hippocrates was by no means con‹ned to professors of medicine—Poliziano and Joseph Scaliger were among the distinguished scholars outside medicine who interested themselves in the philological study of Hippocratic texts.35 Within the medical community at large, surgeons interested themselves in the practical usefulness of the Hippocratic surgical writings.36 Moreover, when erudite physicians wrote commentaries on “new” Hippocratic treatises, they did not necessarily do so in connection with teaching—for example, it seems unlikely that some of the late sixteenth- and seventeenth-century commentaries on the Oath were ever delivered as university lectures.37 Furthermore, some professors of medicine whose teaching was profoundly in›uenced by the new Hippocrates (e.g., some members of the Paris group studied by Iain Lonie) did not necessarily deliver sets of lectures or produce formal commentaries speci‹cally devoted to the exposition of particular treatises.38 Nevertheless,

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the institutional context in which Hippocratic texts were most likely to be studied and interpreted during the Renaissance was that of a course of lectures on an individual treatise in a university faculty of medicine. Despite the highly conservative statutory core of the medical curriculum in most universities, some lecturers experimented with less familiar Hippocratic texts. Among works introduced in this way, the Epidemics occupies a prominent place; as will become apparent, the commentaries on Airs Waters Places stand in more ambiguous relationship to university medicine. Commentaries that either explicitly announce their basis in university teaching or bear unmistakable signs of it (in the shape of division into numbered lectiones and so on) imply some degree of institutional acceptance of innovation. But who was in a position to attempt the introduction of new teaching texts, and how successful were they? The most formal, but perhaps least usual, means of introducing new material into an academic curriculum was by revising university statutes that listed set books or by establishing a new professorial chair. Thus, Ferrara added a lectureship on “Hippocrates in Greek” in 1562.39 Much more commonly, some professors were given or took the opportunity to lecture on books of their own choice. In some instances, “extraordinary” (that is, supplementary) lectures may have provided the opportunity to introduce “new” works, though such lectures often focused either on selected sections of standard texts or on particular subject areas. But the opportunity to introduce new texts of their own choice seems on occasion to have been a personal prerogative of professors who either enjoyed exceptionally high intellectual reputation or perhaps the favor of powerful local patrons. The ability to introduce a new work may indeed have been a matter of pride and competitive advantage for these medical lecturers, as it had been for the literary humanists of the previous century.40 Two sets of lectures on the Epidemics given respectively at the universities of Padua and Pisa in the second half of the century exemplify the process whereby professors of exceptional academic distinction (and advanced age) were able to lecture on Hippocratic texts of their own choice. The ‹rst set, presented in 1550, closed the career of one of Padua’s most esteemed professors, Giambattista Da Monte. Initially appointed to a chair in practica, in which he attracted “a very large attendance of students” (magna auditorum frequentia), he subsequently transferred to a professorship in theoria, probably still then the more prestigious of the two branches of the academic medical curriculum. As the editor’s preface to the posthumous edition of Da Monte’s commentary explains, he returned from a planned retirement to deliver the lectures on selected portions of book 1 of the Epidemics.41 Da


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Monte began his lectures by emphasizing that the choice of both the work and the speci‹c sections within that work was entirely his own: “I want to make it clear in the ‹rst place why I undertook to interpret this book, which no one up to now has been accustomed to interpret, and secondly why I am going to begin from this small section and not from the beginning of the book.”42 The second example is that of Girolamo Mercuriale at Pisa, to whose lectures on the Epidemics the reader has already been introduced. There, too, after the reestablishment of the university by Duke Cosimo de’ Medici in 1543, the senior professors of medical theory normally rotated lectures on a highly traditional curriculum consisting of the Hippocratic Aphorisms and Galen’s Ars.43 But Pisa also had a chair, apparently added in 1567, titled medicina theorica supraordinaria.44 Its fortunate occupant received a salary about three times as much as the next highest paid professors and was evidently free to select his own texts. Mercuriale was appointed to this chair in 1592, toward the end of his long and distinguished career, by which time he was already renowned as a Hippocratic scholar.45 At Pisa, he pursued his Hippocratic interests by giving courses of lectures on On Human Nature and the Epidemics.46 He, too, made a programmatic statement about his intentions, stressing the novelty of his undertaking. Many reasons impelled me at this time and in this year to lecture to you on the epidemic histories of Hippocrates. The ‹rst was the condition of my mind [mei ingenii]; because it dislikes treating the same thing twice, it turns of its own accord to things that no one else, or very few people, have attempted. This treatise is of that kind, in that scarcely any public professor is found who is willing to lecture on it and unpack its meaning in the presence of an audience in the public universities. I said “scarcely any” because Da Monte, a very celebrated man, did undertake this work but, cut off by death, was able to complete only the ‹rst two case histories. The second reason is that I have decided to dedicate whatever life remains to me ‹rst to serving God and then to interpreting Hippocrates to my listeners, but since I already lectured on Epidemics 2 at Bologna, not without fruit and pleasure for the students, it seemed to ‹t in with my plan that I should deal with similar material in this celebrated university.47 These examples suggest that the introduction of lectures on new Hippocratic texts is yet another instance of the relative ›exibility and openness of

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Renaissance universities. Although highly conservative in their statutory curricula, they were often hospitable to other kinds of innovation. So long as change involved accretion rather than substitution, it could take place quite readily. Yet innovations were not necessarily lasting; much depended on the often short-lived initiatives of local rulers, patrons, or particularly in›uential professors. In these circumstances, it is not surprising to ‹nd that although opportunities to lecture on a wider range of Hippocratic texts were found and taken, they seem seldom to have resulted in curricular change outlasting the career of the individual who took the initiative. But undoubtedly the reception of the Epidemics had a demonstrable effect on the medical teaching, writing, and, perhaps, practice of some physicians.48 Among the innovators who chose to comment on Hippocratic works other than those long standard in university curricula were some of the most famous medical professors and practitioners: in addition to those already mentioned, commentators on the Epidemics and/or Airs Waters Places included Girolamo Cardano at Bologna; Francisco Valles (1524–92), the premier medical humanist of the University of Alcalá; and Lodovico Settala (1552–1633), whose career culminated in his appointment as proto‹sico of the duchy of Milan.49 Probably all the authors who wrote on relatively unusual Hippocratic books, but certainly Cardano and Mercuriale, had in common an exceptionally high level of interest in Hippocrates. Cardano planned (though never completed) commentaries on the entire corpus, identi‹ed himself as a Hippocratic physician, and devoted much of his teaching to Hippocrates, including other lesser-known treatises besides those mentioned here.50 Mercuriale prepared an edition of the Hippocratic corpus, and as noted in chapter 1 of the present study, he was the author of one of the ‹rst attempts since Galen’s to classify the Hippocratic books according to their authenticity. Well into the eighteenth century, Renaissance Latin versions of the Hippocratic corpus, sometimes accompanied by commentary, continued to be printed and, presumably, used. Thus, a Latin edition published in 1737–39 contained the translation of Janus Cornarius (1546); an alphabetically arranged commentary on the entire corpus—a kind of Hippocratic encyclopedia—‹rst published in 1575; and an index ‹rst published in 1597. The newest item in the set is a bibliography of Hippocratic editions and guide to the most important commentaries.51 Giovanni Battista Paitoni, the Venetian physician who edited this collection, seems an excellent embodiment of the Enlightenment Hippocratic Renaissance described by Jackie Pigeaud, in which admiration for the Hippocratic corpus was closely linked with an idea


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of a medicine based entirely on close observation of diseases and uncontaminated by philosophy.52 A member of the Venetian Board of Health and the owner of a large library of modern medical works, Paitoni was involved in determining whether smallpox inoculation should be introduced into Venice.53 Attention to sixteenth-century commentators—as distinct from other aspects of Hippocratism—by an eighteenth-century medical bibliophile should probably be accounted a mark of antiquarian tastes. Nevertheless, the bibliography included by Paitoni insists on the usefulness of Renaissance commentaries. The literally glowing terms in which it praises Settala may mark the ‹nal phase of the life of this body of medical literature: it pronounced Settala’s commentary on Airs Waters Places “a truly golden work that should never be out of the hands of physicians.”54 The following highly selective examples illustrate the presence of, and attitudes toward, history in the work of sixteenth-century Hippocratic commentators in three different areas: ‹rst, the presentation of Hippocrates as a historical personage and of his role in the development of medicine; second, discussion of the individual “case histories” in the Epidemics; and third, allusions to either ancient or recent civil history in commentary on Airs Waters Places.

The Figure of Hippocrates Far from being a Renaissance innovation, the provision of some account of Hippocrates himself was a highly traditional feature of commentary on Hippocratic treatises. Since antiquity, commentaries, as a genre, had normally included an accessus, or introductory section, providing some information about the author; over time, the accessus developed into a standard set of topics brie›y explicating the work’s title, its usefulness, its author, and his purpose in writing.55 Hence, the accessus to a medieval Latin commentary on a work by a major ancient or medieval Arabic medical author often included biographical elements or a sketch of that author’s supposed role in the history of medicine. Furthermore, in the case of Hippocrates, commentators were able to draw information about his biography and character from a Latin life (apparently based on the Greek life attributed to Soranus) that had circulated in the West since the eleventh or twelfth century.56 As presented by thirteenth- to ‹fteenth-century scholastic medical authors, Hippocrates usually appeared as a divinely appointed discoverer or restorer of medicine who had either perfected or almost perfected medical knowledge.57 Renaissance depictions of Hippocrates expanded and developed partly

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because scholars mistakenly believed themselves to have access to a substantial body of reliable biographical information, much of it recently acquired, and partly because of a tendency to invoke the ‹gure of Hippocrates in current medical issues and, sometimes, controversy. The Hellenistic collection of letters and speeches about his life, with its vivid descriptions of episodes known only in outline from the Soranian biographical tradition, ‹rst became available in the West in the ‹fteenth century (other Latin letters supposedly by Hippocrates had circulated in western Europe from the ninth century, but these were treatises on various medical issues).58 Rendered into Latin by humanist translators, printed (along with the Soranian biography in Greek or in new humanist translation) with the sixteenth-century collected editions of Hippocrates’ works, and unquestioningly accepted as authentic, the collection added vivid detail to the existing picture of Hippocrates as model physician and model citizen.59 At the same time, fuller knowledge of the Hippocratic corpus itself, also acquired in the late ‹fteenth and the early sixteenth centuries, offered little or no biographical information about its author or authors; and the Galenic revival brought greater familiarity with Galen’s in›uential reworking of Hippocratic tradition, making it even more likely for Hippocrates to be seen through Galen’s eyes. In the sixteenth century, as will become apparent in the next chapter of the present study, medical biography increasingly broke out of the narrow con‹nes of the accessus and took the form either of entries in biographical collections or of lives prefaced to the collected works of authors both ancient and modern. In the case of Hippocrates, the biography attributed to Soranus ful‹lled the latter function in several editions of the Hippocratic corpus.60 But commentators on Hippocratic works varied considerably in the extent to which they incorporated biographical or historical information about Hippocrates in their exposition. At least one, the Paduan professor Oddo degli Oddi, regarded the expanding historical interests of physicians with dismay, seeing only a diversion from the proper task of medicine (and some shaky biographical claims). After brie›y informing his readers that Hippocrates was a member of the family of the Asclepiadae and that his grandfather was named Gnosidius and might have written two medical books, he added: And you should not expect that I would want to expatiate any more here about Hippocrates’ native land, his family, his wealth, his handsome body, and, in short, his own life, about which things, as you know, other people have written copiously. These people claim that they alone have rightly set forth Hippocrates’ life, whatever it is they


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say. And there is more that anyone can read in the works Hippocrates printed at Basel in 1526. . . . But with reference to this, since these things pertain to the historian rather than the physician, whose task should be to explain the true method and precepts of medicine, . . . I do not think anyone serves the dignity of a physician who, having omitted these things which belong to his art, devotes his entire study to setting forth things foreign to it.61 Nonetheless, as the following examples will show, other sixteenth-century commentators on Hippocratic books continued to develop their own portrayals of Hippocrates, both in biographical sketches (some of them very scanty) incorporated into an accessus and by attributing characteristics or opinions to him throughout the body of their works. As one might expect, the commentators shared and reinforced the traditional view that the historical Hippocrates had been a model of knowledge, good medical practice, and probity. One partial exception to this rule was Francisco Sanches, a physician and natural philosopher best known today for his interest in skepticism. Like Mercuriale, Sanches composed a censura in which he evaluated the authenticity of treatises in the Hippocratic corpus, basing most of his judgments about authenticity on the testimony of Galen. But unlike most other sixteenth-century commentators, Sanches pointed out what he regarded as factual errors in treatises he judged authentically Hippocratic, remarking, for example, that the statement in The Art that the healthy abdomen was ‹lled with air was, no matter how it was interpreted, “contrary to reason” and that the assertion in On Ancient Medicine that the most severe pains originated in the liver was simply “false.” Of On the Diseases of Women, Sanches observed coolly, “This is not very unworthy of Hippocrates, although the treatment recommended differs from our common practice: for time changes everything.”62 But such implicit criticism and historicization of the factual content of the medical wisdom ascribed to Hippocrates were highly unusual. Most commentators drew or inferred biographical information about Hippocrates from standard sources—sometimes supplemented by their own imaginations. But the picture that resulted varied according to each commentator’s interests and preoccupations. Like Galen before them, the commentators added nuances to the portrait of Hippocrates that re›ected the concerns and priorities of their own day. Thus, the Soranian author’s statement that Hippocrates had studied philosophy with Democritus and rhetoric with Gorgias lent itself to varying interpretations. For example, the Parisian

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physician Maurice de la Corde, a member of the circle of “Paris Hippocratics” identi‹ed by Iain Lonie, introduced his commentary on the Hippocratic treatise On the Diseases of Women with a sketch of the history of philosophy based at least in part on his reading of Aulus Gellius.63 In La Corde’s version, Hippocrates was the father of Platonism and Aristotelianism as well as medicine. It is indeed clearly known to everyone—at least to those people who boast because they consider themselves Peripatetics and exult as if with that name they were by right better than anyone else—that Aristotle was a most studious auditor of Plato, who ‹rst founded the Academy. But it is not equally known to everyone that Plato excelled in teaching in the Academy only to the extent that he was able . . . to expatiate on and offer an ampli‹ed explanation of things that had previously been discovered and written down by Hippocrates.64 Yet although the jibe at Aristotelians among La Corde’s contemporaries was clearly his own contribution, his assertion echoes one of Galen’s more extreme claims about his hero Hippocrates. Here, too, Galen’s own historical interests reemerge.65 La Corde’s sharp comments about Aristotelians may re›ect local rivalries at Paris, but he was by no means the only commentator to insist on Hippocrates’ importance and chronological precedence as a philosopher. His view was shared by a much more prominent ‹gure—namely, Cardano, who maintained that from Hippocrates “the whole Peripatetic philosophy ›owed down.” Cardano, an eclectic moral and natural philosopher in his own right, classi‹ed the works of the corpus in such a way as to present Hippocrates as the author of an encyclopedia of moral and natural philosophy, as well as medicine, for physicians. In addition, he repeatedly cited Hippocratic sources for some of his own key philosophical ideas, including his denial that ‹re constituted one of the elements.66 But while La Corde and Cardano were in agreement that Hippocrates had been a founder of the Greek philosophical tradition, they differed as to what kind of philosopher he was. For La Corde, he was the author of arcana, obscure dicta that had required clari‹cation and explanation by Plato.67 For Cardano, Hippocrates was the author of clear and simple teaching, which had been confused and obfuscated by Galen.68 Most authors, however, were content to present Hippocrates as the perfect physician. Indeed, several of them characterized him as the “prince of physicians”—displacing Avicenna from a long-held title.69 In this view, Hippocrates’ philosophical studies, like those of medical students in a sixteenth-


Fig. 4. Title page of Hippocrates’ Opera published in Basel in 1526, placing Hippocrates in the company of Greek and Roman philosophers, poets, rhetoricians, and historians. The border panels are metalcuts by Jakob Faber (after Hans Holbein the Younger) that were originally created for an edition of Strabo’s Geography in 1523 but that the publisher, Andreas Cratander, evidently considered equally suitable for Hippocrates. (Courtesy of the New York Academy of Medicine Library.)

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century university, had been propaedeutic to medicine. The commentary on the Oath by Dr. Peter Memm of Rostock supplied the adolescent Hippocrates with a whole curriculum of studies—natural and moral philosophy, mathematics, liberal disciplines, and all the arts. As Memm remarked, “Even if there is no evidence in his writings about this, the conjecture is easy from very certain things.”70 Da Monte, too, informed his student audience and subsequent readers that Hippocrates had studied philosophy with Democritus and Herodotus and oratory with Gorgias, but he preferred to stress not Hippocrates’ philosophical attainments but his nobility of character, guaranteed by his nobility of descent—from Jupiter, via Hercules. His Hippocrates’ family was thus so noble that “neither Philip nor Alexander, nor anyone else, was nobler than he.” Other sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century authors drew on the biography attributed to Soranus to work up the genealogy of Hippocrates into an elaborate family tree (such as is included in the commentary on the Oath by Johann Heinrich Meibom)71 in order to show the great physician’s descent from earlier putative founders of medicine. In Da Monte’s stripped-down version, the abbreviated genealogy serves only to attest to Hippocrates’ aristocratic lineage “lest anyone should perhaps think medicine is ignoble and does not have illustrious men.” Da Monte argued that additional evidence of Hippocrates’ noble status was supplied by the social circles in which he had moved, since he had been the friend of a king— a remark that seems to place Hippocrates in the role of Renaissance court physician. Da Monte was evidently also sensitive to the power of iconographic representation, for he further assured his young listeners that if Hippocrates was depicted in humble attire, it was only because he was always traveling.72 Yet Da Monte also pointed out that both rationalist and empiric schools claimed Hippocrates as their own, so that not just those speculatively inclined students versed in dialectic and philosophy, who were destined to become “outstanding physicians and great men,” but also their less gifted fellows could learn from Hippocrates.73 But Hippocrates’ medical wisdom did not come simply from his youthful studies, inherent ‹neness of character, or noble descent. His length of life, which allowed him time to gather much experience, was another recurrent theme. The Paris physician Adrien L’Alemant assured his readers that Hippocrates had lived to the age of 104.74 This stress on the venerability as well as the antiquity of Hippocrates stands in striking contrast to the insistence with which some sixteenth-century innovators—Vesalius and Dürer come to mind—called attention to their own youthful accomplishment.75 Other commentators made Hippocrates the hero of a chronologically


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unspeci‹c summary of early medical history very similar to that put forward by their medieval predecessors: thus, Pedro Jaime Esteve, a Valencia professor of medicine and botanical author, listed a series of mythological or semimythological founders and ancestors before Hippocrates, who bequeathed to posterity “dogmatic and rational medicine.”76 But some three-quarters of a century earlier, in 1466, Matteolo da of Perugia, a professor of medicine at Padua, had already provided an account of Hippocrates that displayed a measure of interest in chronology and in critical evaluation of both literary sources and material evidence. In the preface to his commentary on the Aphorisms, Matteolo noted that an urn found near Rome inscribed with the name Hippocrates surely did not refer to the physician of Cos, who was not the only person in antiquity named Hippocrates. He argued that the statement of Isidore of Seville that Hippocrates was the son of Aesculapius could only have been meant metaphorically, since Isidore also stated that Hippocrates brought medicine back to light ‹ve hundred years after the death of Aesculapius. Matteolo also weighed the views that Hippocrates had been an older contemporary of Democritus or, alternatively, his disciple. He concluded that the former was correct, appealing to the (supposed) letter of Hippocrates to Democritus as evidence against the theory that Hippocrates had been Democritus’s disciple.77 Some later commentators developed these historical inquiries and speculations much further. Thus, Johann Heinrich Meibom, whose elaboration of Hippocratic genealogy in his commentary on the Oath has already been mentioned, devoted much effort to identifying every Hippocrates other than the physician named by classical authors. He also provided a chronologically speci‹c list of early witnesses to the authenticity of the Oath as a Hippocratic work, beginning, supposedly, in the third century BCE and continuing up to the Suda and Avenzoar, “who . . . lived under Frederick I Barbarossa.”78 For most academic medical authors, one function of the ‹gure of Hippocrates, the rational and philosophically trained physician, was to stand in sharp contrast to the bad practitioners and especially the empirics of their own day. L’Alemant was particularly distressed by what he perceived as a servile and pro‹t-oriented willingness to cooperate with female empirics or nurses: “They ‹rst ask women attendants (with whom they share their pro‹ts) what is wrong with the patients, and are not ashamed to make a diagnosis on that basis.” This arrangement led L’Alemant to exclaim sarcastically: “Oh worthy practice in which lying is taught and pro‹t is gained from old women, which Hippocrates and Galen, the most outstanding masters of healing, if they were alive would surely admire, approve, choose!”79 In addition,

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L’Alemant contrasted good Hippocratic medical prognostication to the activities of the swarm of popular prognosticators whose dire predictions were made contrary to both Christian faith and true astronomy.80 Commentators also attempted to discern where Hippocrates stood on scienti‹c issues of importance in their own day. As the remark of L’Alemant just quoted suggests, the traditionally close relation of medicine and astrology was under examination in the intensely astrological culture of the sixteenth century, for a variety of reasons. Among them were the vigorous debate about the role of the stars in the causation and transmission of epidemic disease and the withering treatment of the claims of astrology by Pico della Mirandola.81 Pico’s denunciations were especially provocative where medicine was concerned, because unlike various other medieval and Renaissance critics of astrology who routinely failed to confront the claimed usefulness of astrology for medicine (along with navigation and agriculture), Pico explicitly repudiated speci‹c medical doctrines (notably that so-called critical days in illness were astrologically determined). In this context, the extent to which Hippocrates had known or endorsed astrology was debated within a larger controversy that continued for most of the sixteenth century. Hippocrates had long since acquired an undeserved reputation as an astrologer, in part on the basis of a treatise on medical treatment according to the phases of the moon known as the Astronomia or Astrologia Ypocratis that circulated in Latin from the thirteenth century onward. Since a number of the relatively few statements about the in›uence of the stars on climate, environment, and health actually to be found in the ancient Hippocratic corpus are clustered in Airs Waters Places, the commentators paid due attention to the question.82 According to the Hippocratic author, Knowing the changes of the seasons, and the risings and settings of the stars, with the circumstances of each of these phenomena he [the physician] will know beforehand the nature of the year that is coming. Through these considerations and by learning the times beforehand, he will have full knowledge of each particular case, will succeed best in securing health, and will achieve the greatest triumphs in the practice of his art. If it be thought that all this belongs to meteorology, he will ‹nd out, on second thoughts, that the contribution of astronomy to medicine is not a small one but a very great one indeed.83 Passages such as this were suf‹cient to convince all the commentators that Hippocrates had considered the study of the stars useful for medicine. But


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what kind of astronomy or astrology had he known, and to what uses had he put it? The varying responses re›ect not just more or less careful readings of the text but also the contested position of medical astrology. Lodovico Settala, in his commentary on Airs Waters Places published in 1590, unhesitatingly assumed and explicitly stated that Hippocrates knew and advocated horoscopic astrology based on the movements of the planets through the signs of the zodiac, that is, the type of astrology normally practiced by medieval and Renaissance astrologers and actually derived from Ptolemaic planetary astronomy that long postdated Hippocrates: “But he means by stars both the planets and the other stars: for we know how many changes in this inferior world these celestial bodies produce, both by themselves and also when they make notable con‹gurations and conjunctions, and especially those that are in contrary houses.” Although Settala apparently believed that physicians should stay away from nonmedical astrological prediction, he added several pages of passionate denunciation of astrology’s critics, attributing any ›aws in the science to the superstitious or inef‹cient procedures of bad practitioners.84 Earlier commentators were more cautious or con›icted. As the Florentine physician Baccio Baldini put it in his commentary on Airs Waters Places, the question was whether Hippocrates had in mind natural astronomy or judicial astrology, “which can predict the inclinations, mores, life, death, and fortunes of people.” Baldini, who declared that he himself agreed with Galen that judicial astrology was extremely useful for medicine, allowed that “everyone may make his own judgment about this.” Nevertheless, he decided that Hippocrates meant only natural astronomy, which could provide medically useful information about changes in winds and weather.85 Both L’Alemant and Esteve, writing respectively in Paris and Valencia at midcentury, drew the conclusion that what Hippocrates had advocated—and what the Hippocratic physician should therefore undertake—was study of the in›uence of the ‹xed stars on the weather. Esteve prefaced his commentary on book 2 of the Epidemics with an eighteen-page defense of the importance of astronomy for medicine, in which the subject is treated entirely in terms of knowledge of star risings and settings and buttressed with technical astronomical information drawn from Regiomontanus.86 L’Alemant, insisting that Hippocrates had often had recourse to astronomy for the purpose of observation of the weather, star risings and settings, and “changes of the year,” encouraged his readers to do the same by ‹lling many pages with signi‹cationes for the weather of the ‹xed stars throughout the year.87 He added ‹rmly, “That superstitious observation of the stars through which future events are pre-

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dicted from the horoscope and so-called revolutions of the years, and which will prescribe certain times for conducting business or putting on clothes, . . . should be rejected.”88 Nevertheless, he also included conjunctions of the planets among factors affecting the weather, asserted that the phases of the moon in›uenced critical days in illness, and remarked that neither Pico nor anyone else would persuade him that the stars had no effect on the elements and animated bodies.89 The best-informed astrologer of this group of Hippocratic commentators, Cardano, did not attribute knowledge of all of astrology to Hippocrates. Cardano perceived parallels between medical and astrological prognostication and asserted that Hippocrates had taught that the heavens were divine and that astrology was necessary for the physician.90 He claimed that Hippocrates was explicit that the heavenly bodies did not just affect the weather but also exercised occult in›uence. Nevertheless, he also argued that Hippocrates had not intended that purges should be prescribed when the moon was in a watery sign but had referred only to changes in the weather. Cardano claimed that the knowledge of the moon’s different influences in each of its phases and of their effect on the therapeutic environment was derived from the astrological teaching of Ptolemy.91 But at least one reader of Cardano’s exposition of Airs Waters Places took away the message that astrology was “rational” and “necessary for the physician.”92 Along with the debates over astrology, the commentators’ representation of Hippocrates also echoes the rise of Renaissance anatomy. The greatly enhanced visibility and prestige acquired by anatomy in the age of Vesalius, combined with the paucity of anatomical material in the Hippocratic corpus, called into question the achievements of Hippocrates in this branch of medicine. As a result, some commentators presented Hippocrates as the possessor of extensive and accurate anatomical knowledge. Once again, La Corde’s exposition of On the Diseases of Women provides an extreme example. Remarking on the fact that the ancients had used the word phlebs for both “vein” and “artery,” he asserted: “It is extremely wicked even to think that Hippocrates had not very beautifully studied all the parts of the body, with their uses and connections, and to say it is most unworthy in a man, but especially in a philosopher, let alone a physician” (La Corde, as we have seen, did not like philosophers).93 In the same passage, La Corde referred to a work that he had written on the parts of the body (which does not appear to survive) “for the good reputation of anatomy and its description made by Hippocrates.” As evidence for “the very obvious fact that Hippocrates was neither unskilled nor in any way primitive in anatomy,” he pointed to the Hippo-


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cratic books on surgery, Places in Man, and On Human Nature and to the practice of dissecting animals attested by the story of Hippocrates’ encounter with Democritus. He concluded his defense of Hippocrates as anatomist by claiming that the account of the veins in Aristotle’s Historia animalium had been plagiarized, but misunderstood, from Hippocrates, with Aristotle “silently concealing the name of Hippocrates in his usual way” (nomen Hippocratis silentio dissimulans pro more suo).94 Cardano, who also wished to maintain the absolute superiority of Hippocrates in all branches of medicine in the context of sixteenth-century advances in anatomical knowledge and practice, tackled the problem differently. While acknowledging that Hippocrates had not practiced human dissection, he assumed complete congruence between Hippocratic medical rules and Vesalian anatomy. In his expositions of the Epidemics (and in his other Hippocratic commentaries), he habitually used anatomical explanations drawn from Vesalius and sometimes anatomical diagrams to amplify Hippocratic maxims or case histories. A reader could easily have gained the impression that Hippocrates, too, even without dissecting, had somehow been endowed with anatomical understanding equal to that of Vesalius.95

Cases in the Epidemics Unlike information about the author of the work commented on and veneration for Hippocrates as the father of medicine, narratives about individual cases of disease or the outbreak of particular epidemics were not standard features of Latin medical commentary. Most of the many histories of patients and diseases produced in increasing numbers from the fourteenth to the seventeenth centuries appeared in other genres of medical writing. The reception of the Hippocratic Epidemics undoubtedly gave further general encouragement and validation to the production of all such narratives. But commentary on the Epidemics necessarily involved speci‹c consideration of the Hippocratic cases themselves. Here, too, Galen provided a model, for the reception of the complete Epidemics was closely accompanied by reception of Galen’s in›uential commentaries on some individual books. The Aldine Galen of 1525 included the Greek text of Galen’s commentary on Epidemics 1 and 3; a Latin translation by the Netherlands physician and humanist Herman Croeser followed shortly thereafter.96 In introducing Epidemics 1, Galen exhorted students of medicine to pay attention to particulars perceived by sense, “so that they can know those things that they previously learned in a general way.”97 However, most of Galen’s exposition of book 1 is devoted to

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the three “constitutions” (accounts of climate and the disease environment over a year), rather than to the individual case histories; and his analyses of many of the cases in books 1 and 3 are quite brief. Moreover, there is little or no sign of his historical interests in these particular commentaries, and he frowned on attempts to draw signi‹cance from the addresses of the patients described by the Hippocratic author.98 But the Renaissance commentators on the Epidemics emphasized the individual patient narratives—referred to as historiae in Croeser’s translation of Galen’s commentary—in a variety of ways. Following Galen’s lead, the sixteenth-century commentators regarded books 1 and 3 as superior in authenticity to books 2 and 4–7. For example, Mercuriale’s “census” of works of Hippocrates placed Epidemics 1 and 3 in the ‹rst (or most authentic) class and noted that “almost no one doubts that Hippocrates himself wrote books 1 and 3 of the Epidemics,” whereas the remaining books were frequently ascribed to pupils or younger relatives of Hippocrates. Even Francisco Valles, who claimed to be the ‹rst to comment on all seven books, acknowledged the lower esteem in which the later books were held. Valles explained that although Galen did not comment on Epidemics 5 because he thought it unworthy of Hippocrates, he himself had decided to do so for the sake of completeness, adding, “If readers may not wish to accept the contents of this book as by Hippocrates, let them accept what is said in the commentary as by me.”99 Epidemics 1 and 3 stood out not only because of their supposedly superior authenticity but also because they contained forty-two of the most fully developed of the many accounts of individual cases in the Epidemics, each one providing a chronological record of an individual’s illness from day to day. Sixteenth-century readers viewed these accounts as undoubted historical records of Hippocrates’ own practice and, as such, deserving of special attention. This is not the place to enter into the modern controversy regarding the original purpose of the compiler(s) of the individual cases, which constitute some of the most remarkable examples of Greek empirical science; suggestions have included such systematic objectives as gathering information to aid prognostication or to investigate or substantiate the belief that “critical days” determined the outcome of illness. But it is worth noting one recent scholar’s conclusion that the evidence for system of any kind is weak and that the purpose was in all probability simply to create an accurate historical and descriptive record.100 Already in the mid-sixteenth century, Da Monte, whose own interest in case histories is well known, had decided to limit his commentary on Epidemics 1 to the case histories and the immediately preceding third “constitu-


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tion,” which, he believed, described the environmental conditions in which the individual cases of illness had occurred.101 He perceived this section of Epidemics 1 as especially useful for teaching because it comprised both universal causes and particulars of diseases, “so that [students] who are not gifted in discussion will be satis‹ed by observation alone, but those inclined to speculation will be able to discuss right down to ‹rst principles.”102 Writing in the 1570s, Valles introduced his commentary with the remark “here the author is a historian, not a preceptor” (hic autor historicus est, non preceptor); in addition, he or his editor indexed many of the cases under the name of the patient.103 Some twenty years later, Mercuriale not only elected to devote his commentary on Epidemics 1 and 3 exclusively to the individual case histories but was, as noted at the beginning of this chapter, explicit in classifying the kind of history written by Hippocrates and linking it to broader notions of history.104 That Mercuriale considered the Hippocratic case histories valuable as a biographical as well as a biological record emerges from his practice of attempting to identify some of the patients and places named with persons and places mentioned by ancient geographers and historians. He drew on Herodotus and Strabo to identify the location of Thasos, the setting of the ‹rst “constitution” and of some of the individual cases, and on scholiasts on Homer for some of the island’s characteristics, including its strong wines. He went on to hypothesize that a connection between excessive indulgence in wine and susceptibility to plague might have affected both the inhabitants of ancient Thasos and the Venetians in the plague epidemic of 1576.105 The passage is suggestive of the way in which Hippocratic environmentalism might itself foster historical and geographical interests among physicians, in that the interpretation of Hippocratic statements might be perceived as calling for an understanding of the physical and social environment about which Hippocrates wrote. Mercuriale’s endeavor to locate the Hippocratic patients also emerges from his efforts to distinguish Philiscus, the protagonist of the ‹rst case history in Epidemics 1, from other individuals of the same name mentioned by ancient authors.106 Philinus, whose wife’s illness is the subject of the fourth case history, must, Mercuriale thought, have been a person of some fame, “since Hippocrates wanted to designate his wife by his name,” but was he the empiric physician Philinus of Cos or the man mentioned by Athenaeus and Antigonus of Carystus who lived on milk alone?107 Such remarks are primarily displays of the humanist erudition for which Mercuriale was famous, but they also insist on the historical reality of the Hippocratic patients and the importance of their individual experiences. Pericles of Abdera, the patient in

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the sixth case in Epidemics 3, provided Mercuriale with the opportunity to explain that this Abdera was evidently in Thrace, although ancient authors also mentioned two other places called Abdera; to describe the faulty memories of the Abderites, according to the Aristotelian Problemata (and their proverbial stupidity in folklore); to summarize the story of Hippocrates’ summons to treat Democritus when the latter went mad; and to attribute these mental problems to the thick air of the region. But Mercuriale argued that there were many men named Pericles and that this unfortunate Abderite could not have been “that great Athenian” (magnus ille Atheniensis). In this instance, Mercuriale opined, medical, not biographical, importance had led Hippocrates to include his case, a comment perhaps showing awareness of the emphasis on the social distinction of patients evident—and conceivably a principle of selection for inclusion—in some late medieval and Renaissance collections of consilia.108 Earlier, Esteve had been similarly struck by the occurrence of the name Alcibiades in Epidemics 2. Admitting that the identity of this Alcibiades was of minimal importance for the medical history of the patient with fever and a swollen testicle who was identi‹ed only as “the man who came from Alcibiades,” Esteve nonetheless provided a capsule biography of “that exceptional and greatest Athenian ruler” and alleged that he was probably the person referred to, on the grounds that he was Hippocrates’ contemporary and that Hippocrates “would scarcely have mentioned the name of someone else who was not famous.”109 In other instances, Mercuriale tried to extract missing biographical information from the patients’ names, suggesting that Nicodemus of Abdera must have been an athlete because his name meant “victor of the people.” He also explained away instances of the Hippocratic author’s failure to name or give other identifying details about the patient, saying that it must have happened because Hippocrates saw so many sick people that he did not have personal details of all of them; because the patient was “ignoble” (ignobilis); or, in the case of women, because of modesty and discretion.110 Although Mercuriale clearly regarded the biographical details about the Hippocratic patients as a historical record, he also viewed the cases as having been deliberately selected and arranged for purposes of medical teaching: “It should be observed that in the histories our master [Hippocrates] has proposed to us examples of both sexes and all ages, both to show that the precepts and rules of the art [of medicine] are in all kinds of situations most true and because those who will become versed in these and other [precepts and rules] will grasp the true seeds of the whole of medicine.”111 The ultimate goal of Mercuriale’s commentary was indeed to extract and explicate such precepts


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and rules for current use, as emerges from his lengthy medical analysis of each case. Biographical details about the patient (especially age and gender) were signi‹cant for such analysis, so that here, too, the historicity of the cases was important. But that his main concern was with contemporary medical practice emerges from his habitual inclusion of recommendations for treatment in his prolonged discussions of brief Hippocratic histories that seldom give information about therapy and often end with the death of the patient. Mercuriale’s suggestion that (to give one example) the fever of Hermocrates, which proved fatal on the twenty-seventh day, could have been treated with phlebotomy, an enema, and various herbal concoctions implies considerable con‹dence in contemporary (and his own) practice.112 But in commenting on the Hippocratic case histories, he con‹ned allusions to the disease environment of his own day to general remarks about plague and the French disease. By contrast, at least one author combined Hippocratic commentary with detailed narratives about cases he or his colleagues had treated and autopsies they had performed. The particulars illustrating the Hippocratic rules in La Corde’s explication of On the Diseases of Women include the stories of the pregnant countrywoman who was kicked by a horse in 1569 and the wife of Thomas Duchemin, who suffered suffocation of the uterus as a result of the shock of tripping and falling on a knife that had been bundled in her cloak, as well as an account of the autopsy of a woman who died of dropsy in 1567.113

Peoples, Climate, and History in Airs Waters Places Airs Waters Places, perhaps more than any other Hippocratic treatise, seems likely to have appealed to Renaissance readers beyond, as well as within, the medical community. As one of its commentators observed, it was a work containing not only medical precepts but much about physiology, astrology, and cosmography.114 The central teaching about environmental effects on human physiology and psychology ‹tted well with beliefs about the interrelation of macrocosm and microcosm that were fostered and reemphasized by the Platonic revival. In an intensely astrological culture, the Hippocratic author’s few statements about the importance of attention to the stars carried great signi‹cance for all readers. A rich panorama of human physical and character types, ancient peoples, and geography ‹lled half the text, making Airs Waters Places, along with Ptolemy’s Tetrabiblos, a key source for climatic and environmental theories about ethnography and history. As already noted in the preceding chapter, the most celebrated and in›uential sixteenth-century

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reading of the historical and ethnographic material in Airs Waters Places was the work not of any physician but of a lawyer, political and natural philosopher, and historiographer—namely, Jean Bodin, who made use of the text as one element in the construction of his theory of climate.115 It is thus not altogether surprising to ‹nd that of four major sixteenthcentury commentaries on this treatise, by L’Alemant, Cardano, Baldini, and Settala, only Cardano’s, based on lectures given at Bologna in 1568, is de‹nitely and unambiguously the result of lectures given in a university. L’Alemant identi‹ed himself as a “physician at Paris” (apud Parisios medico). Whether he held an academic position is unclear, but even if he did, his commentary may not necessarily re›ect formal medical teaching, especially since it ends with a deprecating remark about its having been written not for the sake of gaining popular attention but in order to “contribute something useful to public affairs.”116 L’Alemant appears to have written only on medical or medical-astrological topics. Nevertheless, evidence of his historical interests is to be found not only in his commentary on Airs Waters Places but also in his commentary on the Hippocratic treatise De ›atibus, in which he cited Thucydides and compared his account of the plague of Athens with the 1348 pandemic and an epidemic in 1514.117 The other three commentators on Airs Waters Places were all humanist physicians whose interests and activities ranged beyond medicine. The multiplicity of Cardano’s interests is too well known to require further comment here, but Baldini and Settala are also salient examples of the interaction of academic, scienti‹c, courtly, and urban culture in the late Italian Renaissance. Baccio Baldini began his career as a professor of medical theory at the University of Pisa. It is possible that his commentary, published in 1586 (the year after his death), was initially derived from lectures he gave there before 1550, although he certainly added or revised portions of it later. Baldini’s early professorial career thus dates from a time when the relations of court and university were close; when Duke Cosimo I reestablished the university of Pisa in 1543, the faculty was largely chosen by ducal advisers. In 1550, Baldini left the university for the court in Florence, where he stayed for the rest of his career, combining the positions of protomedico and physician to the ducal family with the life of a court humanist and librarian. Duke Cosimo I is said to have valued him greatly both for his knowledge of litterae humaniores and for his reliability and ef‹ciency in transacting business.118 Baldini seems never to have gone back to the university and wrote no other medical works of any substance. Instead, he produced vernacular works that place him ‹rmly in a courtly ambience. They include two orations in


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praise of Cosimo I (addressed to the Accademia Fiorentina) and a biography of the same ruler.119 The biography, although adulatory and exculpatory, contains a substantial historical narrative of international political and military affairs involving Tuscany from the early years of the sixteenth century. It can perhaps be rated as a minor example of the intense interest in contemporary political history that is a feature of the age of Guicciardini and Giovio. The uses that the Tuscan court found for Baldini’s humanistic learning appear in his narrative for the Masque of the Genealogy of the Gods of the Gentiles, performed in 1565 during the elaborate celebrations for the marriage of Francesco de’ Medici to Giovanna of Austria.120 This description of a pageant of deities that, as Baldini explained, represented the planets and the elements draws heavily on Hesiod, Cicero, and Boccaccio, but it also invokes such scienti‹c sources as Ptolemy’s Almagest, Pliny, and various works of Aristotle. In Baldini’s commentary on Airs Waters Places, a sign of the author’s connection with the court and what may be termed “court science” already appears in the dedication of the work to Cosimo’s successor, Grand Duke Francesco de’ Medici, a ruler noted for his interest in alchemy, natural history, and “secrets of nature.” More signi‹cantly, one aspect of the environmental teaching of Airs Waters Places had for Baldini a speci‹c local and practical application. He explicitly linked the Hippocratic author’s insistence on connections between the nature of the water supply and human health, physique, and moral character with the natural qualities of the river Arno and with Cosimo I’s projects for improving drainage and water supply in his domains. Whether Baldini instructed Cosimo about Hippocratic teaching on water and whether Cosimo himself understood these projects as Hippocratic cannot be determined, but there is no doubt that Baldini saw them in a Hippocratic light. The biography of Cosimo repeatedly draws attention to his actions to improve water supply and limit ›ooding. Similarly, the commentary on Hippocrates includes appreciative remarks about Cosimo’s endeavors to limit ›ooding on the plain of the Arno, following a major inundation that occurred during his reign.121 Baldini further devoted many pages of the commentary to comparing the relative merits of the waters of the Tiber and the Arno, greatly to the advantage of the latter. This early example of the localization or domestication of Hippocratic environmental teaching—characteristic of later works inspired by Airs Waters Places—vividly evokes “the great quantity of excrements from numerous sewers and an almost in‹nite number of ‹lthy, impure, and fetid places” that ›ow into the Tiber, while also containing the information that Pope Paul III, “an extremely wise man” always insisted on taking Tiber water with him to drink every time he crossed the river.122 In a

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subsequent passage that is a reminder of the chorographic endeavors of the sixteenth century (and of the need for them), Baldini drew on personal knowledge to reject the belief that the two rivers both rose from the same mountain, recalling a trip that he himself had made in 1564, in the company of Duke Cosimo, to the source of the Tiber. Baldini insisted that the Arno rose several miles away from the Tiber and from a higher point (its loftier origin supposedly a guarantee of superior purity); in this he was correct, although he greatly exaggerated the difference in altitude.123 As for Paul III, if he had really persisted in drinking Tiber water, Baldini could only think it was because the pontiff knew it was dangerous for an old person to change his dietary habits.124 By contrast, Baldini’s biography of Cosimo informs the reader that Cosimo used to bathe in the Arno in summer, singing as he did so.125 Like that of Baldini, Lodovico Settala’s career as a professor of medicine was very brief. He was a junior lecturer in practica at the University of Pavia for just three years, immediately after graduating in medicine there in 1573. This interlude was the prelude to more than ‹fty years of medical practice in Milan, culminating in his appointment as the Milanese state’s proto‹sico, or chief medical of‹cer. His medical career carried him through Milan’s great plague epidemics of 1576 and 1630 and ensured him lasting fame in the shape of a verbal portrait in the plague chapter of I promessi sposi.126 In addition to the Hippocratic commentary, which was begun about the time of his graduation and published in 1590, Settala’s medical writings also comprise a plague treatise—based on his experiences in 1576 and dedicated to San Carlo Borromeo—and a set of “medical opinions and warnings.”127 Settala also had philosophical interests outside medicine. Concurrently with his medical practice, he taught philosophy in the municipal Scuole Canobiane. A collector of rare books “on all the arts and sciences,” he laid the groundwork for the celebrated museum assembled by his son Manfredo. His interest in miscellaneous natural topics falling across the boundary between natural philosophy, physiology, and medicine led him to comment not only on Airs Waters Places but also on the Problemata attributed to Aristotle and to write a treatise on physiognomy. In the preface to his “medical opinions,” he acknowledged that the three works just named had little to do with medical practice, noting that his friends were saying that “our commentaries on Hippocrates and Aristotle’s Problemata and treatise on [the physiognomical signi‹cance of] birthmarks, although they doubtless pertain to the sources [fontes] of medicine, do not concern its actual practice and use.” His interests encompassed historical, political, and—in the Aristotelian sense—economic, as well as natural, topics. At the Scuole Canobiane, he lectured on moral and


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political philosophy; his written works include a treatise on reason of state and another on family management. He was such an assiduous reader of history—as the examples from Roman history in his treatise on reason of state testify—that he is said to have been offered the position of of‹cial historiographer by a Spanish governor of Milan, a considerable compliment in that historically oriented civic culture (Settala refused the position).128 The four commentaries on Airs Waters Places by these men are closely related, at least in the sense that each commentator carefully read whatever previous commentary was available to him. Although all four frequently criticized their predecessor or predecessors on speci‹c points (Cardano accused L’Alemant of plagiarism; Baldini expressed disagreements with L’Alemant and Cardano, as did Settala with L’Alemant, Cardano, and Baldini), their commentaries have essential features in common. All took seriously their obligation to explicate not only the Hippocratic author’s teaching about the effects of climate and region on physiology but also his historical and political ethnography. For them, as for commentators on the Epidemics, Hippocrates was a witness to ancient history and cosmography as well as a ‹gure in the history of medicine. Along with explicating the geographical material in the text and attempting to identify ancient with modern place-names, the commentators habitually collated statements about different peoples with the writings of ancient historians and other ancient witnesses. In addition, some of them tested Hippocrates’ assertions about the in›uences of various types of environment on the character of peoples against the record of historical events both in antiquity and later, up to their own day. Thus, when Cardano came to comment on the Hippocratic account of the Amazons, he supplied not only a reference to Herodotus but a philosophical disquisition on whether or not women could or should ‹ght, accompanied with references to Plato’s guardians, a scienti‹c discussion of Amazon mastectomy in the light of Vesalian anatomy, a mention of women warriors encountered by European explorers in the New World, and an allusion to heroic female defenders of the patria “in our time” in Turin.129 Settala introduced a note of historical criticism by announcing that he would ‹rst provide a historical account of the Amazons: “Since many almost fabulous things are written about them by historians and poets which perhaps will arouse suspicion of falsity about even the more truthful accounts, I am led to believe it is a worthwhile endeavor to bring out what is said about the Amazons by various and indeed renowned authors, so that when they have been collated we will ‹nally be able to decide what ought to be said from among such a variety of ancient sources.” He signaled the limits of his critique by adding, “espe-

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cially since the author I am expounding was never accustomed to lie.”130 Nonetheless, he quoted in full Herodotus’s entire passage about the Amazons and diligently compared it with statements by Diodorus Siculus, Pompeius Trogus, Greek scholiasts on Homer, Strabo, Plutarch, and more, in an endeavor to locate the Amazons both chronologically and geographically. He also drew on information about the New World to supplement the historians and the secular and religious myths of the Old. He cited Amerigo Vespucci’s voyages and Oviedo’s Historia general y natural de las Indias in support of his conclusion that those of the ancient Amazons described as living toward the west, “unless they are fabulous,” were perhaps to be identi‹ed with those encountered “in our time” in the New World; he also thought that their habitation might be identi‹ed with Plato’s Atlantis, and speculated that perhaps it was where Solomon’s ships sailed every four years.131 Similarly, both Cardano and Settala were concerned to solve the vexed question of the original habitation of the Scythians and to identify their modern descendants. Cardano identi‹ed the Scythians as the ancestors of the Tatars, of whose subsequent history he provided an account in a long digression about Tamerlane and his successors. Citing Herodotus and Diodorus Siculus, Settala explained that in ancient times the Scythians lived in Asia “beyond the Tanais [Don]”; later they crossed into Europe. In Settala’s view, the term Scythians comprehended Muscovites and Sarmatians, for whose subsequent history he cited the Polish physician and historian Matthias de Miechov (d. 1523) and the historian of Muscovy Sigismund von Herberstein.132 But he also accepted that the Scythians were the ancestors of the Tatars—a problematic position, since the Hippocratic author had described the Scythians as infertile while the Tatars were known to be very numerous. Perhaps, he suggested, they only appeared numerous either because they were scattered over a very large territory or because they banded together in numbers for military raids.133 Among the general maxims in the Hippocratic text, two related precepts, one environmental and the other political, especially inspired the commentators to test them against the record of events. The ‹rst stated that the peoples of Asia were less warlike than the peoples of Europe; the second stated that peoples ruled by kings or lords were less willing to ‹ght than those ‹ghting for themselves under their own laws.134 Although the commentators treated these statements as rules of human behavior as true as Hippocratic maxims about health, they also showed varying levels of awareness that history did not always bear out the Hippocratic text. L’Alemant, Baldini, and Settala all


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invoked Galen’s treatise That the Habits of the Soul Follow the Temperament of the Body in support of the idea that psychological traits characteristic of whole populations were determined by the complexional balance of hot, wet, cold, and dry; and these in turn, according to their interpretation of Airs Waters Places, depended on climate or region. (The theory of temperament or complexion was an endlessly ›exible concept, not just applicable to whole peoples, but also used to explain physiological and psychological variations among individuals and at different stages of life, as well as the functioning of different parts of the body.) But L’Alemant distanced himself somewhat from the Galenic work’s materialist psychology by explaining that although the temperament of the heart was responsible for the emotions, reason was supposed to control them, just as a rider controlled his horse—though sometimes the horse was stronger than the rider.135 In any event, L’Alemant thus concluded: “Asians are more timid and cowardly than Europeans on account of the equality of the seasons and the mildness of the climate. For people who live in cold places are often stronger, inasmuch as they are often a people used to and hardened by hard work, without re‹ned manners, and abounding in innate heat.” As evidence for the historical veracity of this claim, L’Alemant quoted Caesar’s observations that the Belgae were the strongest of all the Gauls.136 He also provided a long list of climatically (and chauvinistically) determined ethnic stereotypes about the French and Spanish of his own day—identifying Frenchmen as brave, talkative, and convivial; Spaniards as cunning, taciturn, grave, and ceremonious. Apparently, he thought even the farthingales worn by Spanish women were the result of the effect of the Spanish climate on their temperament.137 Yet he also allowed that changing historical circumstances might change these inherent characteristics, as Turkish expansion in more recent times had induced Asians and Greeks to ‹ght.138 L’Alemant seldom quali‹ed the Hippocratic author’s statement about the effects of different types of government. He wrote, “The Romans when they were not in servitude ruled the whole world, but now . . . they rule scarcely one corner.” For other evidence that “liberty makes men more warlike,” he once again drew on Caesar, “speaking of Germans, who (as he says) enjoyed every liberty, nor were they from childhood trained in honest disciplines or skills, but everyone did whatever he liked.” L’Alemant further noted that the Germans at the time Caesar described them were not only free but equal: “They did not permit elaborate buildings to be erected, nor thirsted for gold, whence they did away with dissidence and factions among the citizens, but they were all equally rich and poor, servants and masters.” L’Alemant main-

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tained that it was the dominance of Rome that produced change later in German history, as Herodian had stated that in the reign of Alexander Severus (222–35 CE), the Germans were corrupted by love of money.139 The other commentators added more historical comparisons and introduced elements of historical critique. Cardano explained that Hippocrates was referring to tyrants, not kings, and that although it was true that the Greeks of the Homeric age lived under kings, this was not the case at the time of Hippocrates.140 He also emphasized that conditions had changed greatly since Hippocrates wrote. The evident willingness of modern soldiers to ‹ght on behalf of kings (or tyrants) was due both to the prevalence of monarchical government and to such practices as using mercenaries, prohibiting the enslavement of Christians, ransoming captives, and allowing troops to loot cities. (Considerably less plausibly, Cardano, whose patrons and patients included several Spanish of‹cials in Milan, also claimed that modern rulers did not establish colonies except “occasionally” and “by chance.”)141 Settala and Baldini further applied the light of history to the analysis of the Hippocratic maxims about the effects of climate and region on politics. Like L’Alemant, Settala justi‹ed the Hippocratic author’s claims for the alleged mildness of the peoples of Asia by asserting that this was formerly so but that they had become “rough and uncultivated” because of the tyranny of the Turks.142 He also considered broader historical applications of what he took to be the Hippocratic rule that it was impossible to combine a voluptuous and a warlike disposition: though Caesar and Mark Anthony proved that individual exceptions were possible, Plutarch’s account of Sparta in his life of Lycurgus showed that a hard life was necessary to make a whole people warlike.143 Baldini pointed out that historical experience seemed to contradict both the idea that Asiatics were less warlike than Europeans and the notion that subjects of kings were unwilling to ‹ght: the Persians under Cyrus had certainly been bellicose, as had been the Huns, Goths, and Lombards, who devastated Italy—all of them ruled by kings. However, he modi‹ed his critique of the Hippocratic text by noting that all these peoples had “councils, magistrates, and colleges so that their rule was more like that of a republic rather than of a king or princedom [principatus].”144 Settala, whose interest in political thought has already been noted, invoked Aristotle’s Politics in order to explain that there were different types of kingship, so that the word king did not always refer to a ruler with unlimited power. As historical examples, he cited the Spartan constitution as described by Xenophon and in Plutarch’s life of Lycurgus and the Greek monarchies in the Homeric age, which, unlike those in ancient Asia, were limited and “de‹ned by ‹xed laws.” In the time of


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Hippocrates, he argued, almost none of the Greeks lived under kings or tyrants, because, despite the divisions among them, “they conspired as one for liberty against tyrants, just like the Swiss in our own age.”145 These observations of Baldini and Settala perhaps suggest that interest in republican political ideas was not quite dead in ducal Florence and Spanish Milan in the last twenty years of the sixteenth century.146 But Settala also used the history of Milan itself to re›ect on the limitations of Hippocratic rules in the face of historical contingency. He explained that the Hippocratic maxims about the effects of climate on the political character of peoples applied only “for the most part” (ut plurimum), as changes in many contingent factors— for example, in legal system, customs, or economic situation—could change the “natural” characteristics of the people of a particular region. This can be seen in our Milanese, who when they were free were extremely powerful in war, when they were under Lombard rule they were fairly effective in war, when they were like slaves under the Byzantine Exarchate they were completely unwarlike, when they were under the overlordship of the German emperors their nature became in every way like that of the Germans. Under French rule, pressed by a harder servitude, they more or less languished. Now established under the Spanish, they somewhat adopt Spanish mores. So we see that if the rule and laws of kings varied, so too did mores, and it is likely that, if other changes are added, the character of the people will in some way change from what the nature of the region produces. But this happens rarely, because so many different things must occur at once and of a particular kind for it to be possible to change what is natural to a region.147 All four commentators on Airs Waters Places had pronounced historical interests—interests that may have helped to attract them to this treatise in the ‹rst place. Yet whatever their attachment to history and to the related ‹elds of geography and ethnographic description, the commitment of these physician authors was primarily practical and medical. They did not think that their efforts to interpret Hippocratic statements about the role of climate in human affairs or the nature of peoples were inconsistent with the objectives of medicine. Notwithstanding any apparent similarities, their enterprise was entirely distinct from Bodin’s endeavor to assemble and evaluate sources of history. Like other Renaissance editors, translators, commentators, and readers of Hippocratic texts, they were primarily engaged in searching out the

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medical ideas and rules of Hippocrates the physician. In the view of the commentators—as Settala explained—the ethnographic, geographic, and historical material in Airs Waters Places provided information germane to the medical diagnosis of patients from different peoples and regions.148

mercuriale and the history of plague Girolamo Mercuriale’s historical and antiquarian concerns informed not only his work on gymnastica and his Hippocratic studies but also some of the treatises on practical medicine that he produced during the eighteen years he spent as a professor of medicina practica at the University of Padua. Nowhere is deployment of historical material more purposeful and systematic than in his plague treatise, where the reader encounters historical framing of the work as a whole as well as repeated appeals to evidence and exempla drawn from historical sources. In this treatise, an excerpt from Thucydides—the famous description of the plague of Athens—precedes Mercuriale’s own preface. In that preface, Mercuriale announced his intention to devote his lectures on plague to the recent epidemic in the Veneto, while characterizing them as a continuation of his previous year’s lectures on book 2 of the Hippocratic Epidemics. By undertaking to present the outbreak in the Veneto as a “constitution” (constitutio, katastasis), in the Hippocratic sense of an account of the disease environment of a particular time and place, he placed this recent example alongside the Hippocratic author’s series of “constitutions” for various ancient Greek cities.149 And Mercuriale’s own ‹rst chapter, containing a brief narrative and description of the plague in Venice, explicitly invokes the parallel of Thucydides’ account.150 Mercuriale had good reason for a choice of presentation that placed a recent local epidemic in a long historical sequence. His lectures on plague delivered between January and March 1577 (and immediately thereafter transcribed and edited for publication by his student Girolamo Zacchi)151 were the sequel to a famous, and embarrassing, episode in his career. In June 1576, Venetian authorities called on Mercuriale to give his judgment on an outbreak of disease in the city. To the dismay of the of‹cials of the Venetian Board of Health, who thought differently, he ‹rmly denied that the sickness was plague and hence that there was any need for quarantine. A calamitous epidemic ensued (whether it was actually bubonic plague, or Yersinia pestis, is of course another matter).152 By the time Mercuriale began his lectures in the following January, he was ready to acknowledge that the epidemic, which had spread through much of central Europe and other parts of Italy, was indeed


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plague; he could hardly do otherwise. But he still maintained that in June 1576 the disease had been only pestilential fevers, not “true plague” (veram et legitimam pestem), and that plague had not begun until July.153 He also optimistically and incorrectly prognosticated that “the plague in Venice and Padua was completely extinct and would not recur any more.”154 Not only did Mercuriale frame his plague treatise as a whole as a “constitution” for a particular time and place (like those in the Hippocratic Epidemics) and as a historical episode (like the plague of Athens), but throughout the treatise, he consistently turned to historical and literary sources for examples of and evidence from plagues in the past. Thus, his contribution to highly current medical debate over the means of transmission of plague relied on historical examples culled from nonmedical authors. He had the advantage of owning a historical library as rich and comprehensive as his collection of medical books. It included historians ranging from Herodotus to Sigonio and encyclopedic collections of historical anecdotes (e.g., Zwinger’s Theatrum vitae humanae), and he evidently made full use of it for this treatise.155 Conservative as Mercuriale’s medical teaching was in most respects, he was nonetheless among those physicians who gave some credence to Fracastoro’s theory of contagion. But he saw no contradiction in giving simultaneous endorsement to the view that the causes of plague (pestis) in general and of the plague in Venice in particular were changes of the air.156 His position no doubt largely re›ects his sharing in the general tendency of sixteenth-century physicians to think in terms of multiple, rather than mutually exclusive, causes.157 But the relatively modest role he allotted to contagion in the Venetian epidemic could also serve as a defense against the recriminations that had followed his denial of any need for quarantine in Venice the previous June. However that may be, Mercuriale adduced historical evidence for both contagion and the effect of changes in the air. In support of contagion, he cited the accounts of Thucydides “and all the historians” (omnium historicorum) as well as Procopius’s description of the plague of Justinian.158 He found passages that seemed to him evidence for changes in air quality preceding epidemics—in which category he included both unusual (and hence portentous) phenomena supposedly resulting from some occult change and perceptible changes in heat and humidity—in Thucydides, Procopius, Philostratus’s Life of Apollonius of Tyana, Evagrius’s Ecclesiastical History, and Ammianus Marcellinus.159 In considering whether the air’s excess cold and dryness, as well as excess heat and humidity, could bring on plague, Mercuriale brought forward allusions to or descriptions of epidemics in Ammianus Marcellinus, Virgil, Livy, and the fourteenth-century Byzantine ecclesiastical

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historian Nicephorus Callistus. He referred to these passages as “historiae, which ought to be the highest form of reasoning for us on this topic.”160 Turning to the question of why some outbreaks of plague were worse than others, Mercuriale explained that the damaging quality in the air was sometimes particularly intense. Examples included the plague of Athens, of course, but also plagues in Rome in the time of Camillus and under the emperors Vespasian and Commodus, at Constantinople in the reigns of Justinian and Leo the Isaurian, and in Italy in the time of the eleventh-century pope Benedict VIII. Also included were “the plague that began in the year 1345, when almost half the people in the world died,” and another severe outbreak in 1528. Mercuriale observed that on other occasions, when the harmful quality in the air was weaker, lesser epidemics resulted, such as some of those in Rome recorded by Livy, one at Constantinople in the reign of Leo the Isaurian, and another recently at Verona. Mercuriale’s sources for this list of historical plagues rated according to severity included Livy, Eusebius, the ‹fteenth-century scholastic medical author Jacques Despars, and, coming up to more recent times, Platina (in his Lives of the Popes) and the Venetian humanist historian Sabellicus.161 The topics of whether contagion was spread by means other than direct contact and how it was that some people were infected while others remained healthy elicited yet more historical examples. For observations on the categories of the population most frequently affected in various epidemics and for anecdotes about contagion by contact (either through the exercise of Christian charity to the sick or through encounters on the battle‹eld), Mercuriale drew on the sixth-century Byzantine ecclesiastical historian Evagrius Scholasticus, Nicephorus Callistus, Dionysius of Halicarnassus, and Appian. Rebutting the objection that if the air were bad in one place, it would be bad everywhere, Mercuriale ‹rst alleged that no epidemic in history had ever struck the entire earth at once, which would have been the case if this objection held. He followed up this general historical argument with speci‹cs from local chronicles: Elia Capreoli (d. 1519) testi‹ed that Brescia had been immune from plague in an epidemic that attacked the rest of Italy in the reign of Marcus Aurelius; the fourteenth-century Florentine Matteo Villani noted that Milan had similarly been spared in 1348.162 The popular view that contagion alone had transmitted plague in Venice—with its implication that Mercuriale’s denial of the need for quarantine and refusal to observe it had played a part in the epidemic’s spread—was, he thought, just another example of the tendency of the people to look for a human being to blame. Again, historians provided his examples: Plutarch said


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that the Athenians blamed the plague on Pericles, Julius Capitolinus asserted that many people thought the emperor Lucius Verus had brought plague to Italy, and Paduan annals showed that Padua blamed a Venetian visitor for bringing the plague of 1348 from Venice. “And so,” wrote Mercuriale, “if you read histories, you will see how the people always found some human cause.”163 Finally, Mercuriale’s con‹dence that plague would not recur in Venice also rested in part on a historical argument. He believed that every disease went through stages of growth, stasis, and decline. Hence, Thucydides and Livy had written of plagues lasting or recurring over several years, but Matteo Villani, the “witness and narrator” of the plague of 1348, had said it lasted scarcely ‹ve months, even though it was so severe. Other plagues in the Veneto in more recent times (speci‹cally in 1478, 1528, and 1555) had lasted a short time and then disappeared. So, Mercuriale maintained, had the Venetian plague of 1576. After an outbreak, he noted, plague usually was absent from a given city for many years, even as it continued to spread to fresh territory.164 Just as much as any of the commentators on Hippocrates, Mercuriale’s goals in his plague treatise were primarily medical (and in his case, it would appear, self-protective). The goal of this chapter has not been to minimize the centrality of essentially medical concerns in Renaissance medical books. But the many varieties of medical narrative, the presentation of ancient medical authorities as historical ‹gures, the analysis of Hippocratic case histories, re›ections on Hippocratic statements with bearing on civil history, and attempts to trace the chronology of plagues of the past all provide examples of the way in which medicine and history might intersect—not only in approach, but also in content—within the literature of medicine itself.

Chapter Three

LIFE WRITING AND DISCIPLINARY HISTORY

A

ccording to Laurent Joubert, the Montpellier physician and naturalist Guillaume Rondelet made learning fun: “He taught in a very humorous way, and held his audience with anecdotes [historiis] and fables, but his teaching was extremely thorough and comprehensive.” This vivid glimpse of a successful Renaissance medical professor in action comes from Joubert’s biography of his former teacher.1 It is thus part of a vast penumbra of Renaissance and early modern writing surrounding medicine, much of it devoted in one way or another to commemorating the past of the discipline and the lives of its great men. In celebratory and memorial orations, in bibliographies and biographies, in reference works, and in histories of varying scope, authors— many of them physicians—recalled the origins and development of medicine as a discipline and the achievements of famous physicians of antiquity (and occasionally the Middle Ages). And they gave unprecedented attention to the lives of recent and contemporary medical men. This outpouring of biographical and historical writing about medicine and physicians includes one of the classics of autobiography, Girolamo Cardano’s De vita propria, with its revelations about the author’s turbulent family life, strange dreams, beliefs in omens, and conviction of his own special gifts, as well as its rich social tapestry of life in Spanish Milan.2 Few other Renaissance accounts of individual medical lives or narratives of medicine’s past are even remotely as striking as Cardano’s exercise in selfrevelation (or self-fashioning). Yet between the ‹fteenth and the seventeenth 106

Life Writing and Disciplinary History

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centuries, these branches of medical literature—or, rather, writing about medicine—constituted a notable point of intersection between medicine, biography, and history. As this chapter will show, medical ‹gures shared to the full, as both authors and subjects, in the striking development of life writing that occurred during this period.3 The greatest number of medical lives and accounts of medicine’s past probably appeared in encyclopedic works or ceremonial contexts. But some late sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century medical lives (e.g., Joubert’s life of Rondelet) can be characterized as fully developed and nuanced professional biography, and some writings about the past of medicine moved toward newer types of disciplinary history and histories of the sciences. Thus, the physician and bibliographer Gabriel Naudé, with whom the discussion in this chapter will end, used oratory, biography, and innovative forms of intellectual history to evaluate aspects of medicine’s past.

medical lives and renaissance life writing Beginning in the ‹fteenth century and still more markedly in the sixteenth, records of personal experience and achievement and explorations of individual character multiplied in autobiographical and biographical writings of many kinds produced by authors from many walks of life. The expansion of biography re›ected both the response to a changing social, intellectual, and economic environment and an enlarged appreciation of the range of ancient biography and doxography.4 Humanist authors could draw not only on Suetonius and Valerius Maximus, known throughout the Middle Ages, but also on “new” ancient models and inspiration for different types of secular biographical writing—most notably Plutarch for political and military ‹gures and Theophrastus for “characters,” that is, personality types.5 Similarly, although various collections of anecdotes about and sayings attributed to ancient philosophers (and physicians) were widely disseminated in the later Middle Ages, full access to Diogenes Laertius yielded one of the most extensive ancient examples of writing about the lives and opinions of learned men.6 With access to Plutarch, some writers preserved his distinction between biography and history, but for the most part Renaissance humanists and their early modern successors considered lives a branch of history. According to Francis Bacon, lives were one of three kinds of “perfect history” (the others being chronicles and relations of particular historical episodes).7 Two generations later, Daniel Georg Morhof similarly de‹ned biography as part of history, asserted that lives offered both example and precept, and particularly

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stressed the instructive value of lives of “philosophers, jurists, physicians, and politici, . . . [from which] we learn many things relating to those sciences.”8 Medicine, as Arnaldo Momigliano remarked, by de‹nition always involved some level of empirical interest in individual human lives.9 The many physicians who turned to biography did not all con‹ne themselves to writing medical lives. Giovanni Garzoni (ca. 1428–1505), a medical practitioner and, for almost forty years, a professor of medicine at the University of Bologna, appears to have devoted most of his time to reworking Jacopo da Voragine’s lives of the saints according to the canons of humanist rhetoric.10 The betterknown collections of lives by Paolo Giovio included political and military ‹gures as well as learned men, only some of whom were physicians. Nonetheless, physicians wrote mostly about the lives of their predecessors and colleagues and, in a smaller (but striking) number of instances, about their own lives. In so doing, they had at their disposal one of the most important ancient models for autobiography in the shape of Galen himself. His works are rich in accounts of his own experiences, books, enemies, and triumphs, and his in›uence on autobiographical and autobibliographical writing extended beyond medicine. Galen’s self-presentation was an acknowledged model not only for Cardano’s accounts of his own life and books but probably also for Erasmus’s autobibliography.11 But autobiography and biography were hardly distinct categories in an age in which autobiographers might write in the third person (as did Pius II, following the example of Caesar) or in the third person and anonymously (as Leon Battista Alberti probably did) and authors might arrange for their own portrait frontispiece (as Cardano did).12 Moreover, physicians, surgeons, and even some midwives, like members of other trades and professions, also portrayed their own experiences in diaries, memoirs, personal letters, and travel writing.13 Travel and new experiences seem to have been suf‹cient to stimulate Felix Platter’s lively account of his days as a medical student in Montpellier and the younger Thomas Platter’s record of his journey to England. But later sections of Felix Platter’s journal mingle a professional with a personal record, giving details of his medical practice that include notes on his patients and an account of an outbreak of plague in Basel in which he himself fell sick.14 Besides, even technical medical writing from this period is often strikingly personal and self- expressive—and this, too, is reminiscent of Galen. One example is Ambroise Paré’s account of his “voyages” as military surgeon with the French army. Here, the goal of the work is to defend Paré’s method of treating wounds received in battle, but the surgical exposition and examples are interwoven with a spirited narrative of the author’s campaign experiences.15


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Apart from these various forms of personal or autobiographical record, Renaissance and early modern medical lives seem to fall into two main categories. The ‹rst consists of lives included in general collections commemorating “illustrious” men in a range of occupations, of which medicine was only one. The second comprises works that clearly had a role in medical professional formation, broadly conceived.16 Printed orations on the deaths of professors of medicine fall into this second category, even if their readers (and, originally, hearers) also included academic colleagues in other disciplines or relatives and friends of the deceased. So, too, do the substantial vitae prefaced to editions of the collected works of well-known medical authors, ancient or modern. Similarly, biographical collections devoted exclusively or predominantly to famous physicians surely had an exemplary function for their professional successors, while also reinforcing group identity and selfde‹nition. For medical readers, lives of physicians encapsulated the history of medical ideas and practices, served to preserve or establish professional traditions, and provided models for imitation or, sometimes, avoidance.

medical men in biographical collections Collective biographical works proliferated in the expanding encyclopedic, antiquarian, and historical literature of the ‹fteenth to early seventeenth centuries, and they increasingly included lives of recent ‹gures as well as—or instead of—the great ancients. Along with other humanists, antiquarians, and historians, physicians also contributed to this genre. Some well-known examples are, in the ‹fteenth century, Michele Savonarola, whose treatise on Padua includes biographical accounts of Pietro d’Abano and a handful of other medical professors; in the sixteenth century, Paolo Giovio, who, in his Elogia, devoted more than twenty of his biographical sketches of learned men to humanist physicians; and in the seventeenth century, the Nuremberg physician Paulus Freher, whose vast Theatrum of bio-bibliographies of some three thousand “men distinguished for erudition” includes more than ‹ve hundred physicians, from the thirteenth-century Taddeo Alderotti to Simon Paulli (d. 1680).17 Whatever the profession of the author, such volumes presented medical lives among other disciplines and other forms of distinction and presumably addressed a general educated readership. Gabriel Harvey, an attentive reader of biographical collections as of collections of astrological genitures (those other assemblages of key information about past lives), summed up one notable aspect of Renaissance historical culture when he commented: “Even the best example is not very useful with-

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out a live portrait [viva ef‹gie].”18 Exemplarity and fascination with the viva, or vera, ef‹gies of individual human lives were indeed intertwined in the ‹fteenth- to seventeenth-century development of both biography and portraiture. At the same time, the expanding genre of collective biography was premised on presenting its subjects as members of a group. From the fourteenth century on, a growing number of such works—classicizing or not, Latin or vernacular—celebrated not only rulers, military leaders, or saints but also recent or contemporary members of civic, intellectual, technically skilled, or professional groups. Among them are, for example, distinguished citizens of particular cities, astrologers, artists, physicians, the professoriate of individual universities (Tübingen in 1596, Leiden in 1613), and, in Melchior Adam’s reference work, the “theologians, jurists, civic leaders, physicians, and philosophers” of the German lands.19 Entries devoted to medical men appeared in biographical collections based on a variety of different premises. For example, in one of the earliest, Filippo Villani’s late fourteenth-century De origine civitatis Florentiae et eiusdem famosis civibus, four of the “famous citizens” of Florence were scholastic physicians of the late thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries. Villani especially praised their learning, which, he asserted (in a remark paralleling similar claims about art) had brought about the revitalization of medicine in Italy.20 Another enthusiast for medicine was the Neapolitan humanist Bartolomeo Facio, who included a group of scholastic physicians in his collection of “illustrious men” (1456), proclaiming: “What is more intellectually demanding than to understand the composition, structure, order of our bodies, and then to grasp by reason the very causes of diseases? What moreover is more honorable than to know with what remedies such varied and diverse kinds of disease are cured?”21 Subsequently, throughout the sixteenth century and into the seventeenth, printed biographical collections of all kinds multiplied and increased in size. From early in the sixteenth century, some collections presented portraits of ‹gures of antiquity, based or supposedly based on coins and medals. After midcentury, woodcut or engraved portraits became an important feature of such works—often their raison d’être, as the proliferation of titles using the word icones indicates.22 In these books, emphasis on lifelike and allegedly authentic representation of modern individuals increased, even though the actual illustrations were often repeated from one printed collection to another. For at least one medical author, the portrait book was a tool of the science of physiognomy: Giovanni Imperiale (ca. 1596–1670), a physician from Vicenza, combined his portrait book of illustrious lives, mostly of


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philosophers and physicians, with a treatise on physiognomy, in which he explained the physical signs of the ingenium of illustrious men.23 Paolo Giovio is a noteworthy example of an author who early appreciated the potential of combining in a printed book the visual and verbal portraits of ‹gures of the recent or relatively recent past. Giovio wrote lives in a variety of formats—individually, collectively, and in brief, pointed, not necessarily wholly complimentary sketches that he termed elogia. He originally wrote his Elogia—consisting of sketches of military, political, and religious leaders, as well as artists and men of letters—to accompany portraits hanging in his own museum, but he intended the printed version of the work to be illustrated with woodcuts, as was done with his Lives of the Twelve Visconti (1549).24 Giovio’s treatment of medical ‹gures seems in some respects representative. As noted earlier, among the subjects of the Elogia were more than twenty physicians, although these are only a small minority of the total. Rather than being placed together as a group, they are scattered among men of letters in other ‹elds. Learning, not medical practice, is the focus of attention; moreover, the emphasis often falls chie›y on intellectual activities in ‹elds outside medicine. Thus, Achillini and Ficino are described as, respectively, Averroist and Platonist philosophers—though there is some reference to Ficino also having written on health care. Giovio reserved his most enthusiastic appreciation of speci‹cally medical activity for the humanistic learning of Leoniceno, Manardo, and Linacre and its usefulness for medicine.25 Later in the century, similar works produced in northern Europe presented more recent and more local ‹gures and, in some cases, re›ected religious change. One example is Nicolaus Reusner’s collection of learned men from the German lands, which acknowledged both Giovio and the Reformer Theodore Beza’s Icones (whose subjects were Protestant Reformers) as in›uence and source. Reusner included sixteen physicians among about a hundred subjects, all from northern Europe and ›ourishing between about the 1520s and the 1560s. Another example is the French antiquary Jean Jacques Boissard’s collection of “illustrious men,” with twenty-eight medical men among about two hundred subjects, including both Italians (Ficino, Fracastoro, Falloppia, and Mattioli) and northerners (Agrippa of Nettesheim, Paracelsus, Vesalius, and Gessner).26 Neither Reusner nor Boissard attempted to group his subjects in such a way as to form a cohesive portrait of any particular discipline or profession. Nevertheless, readers of either would have gained an idea of the names, appearance, and achievements of an array of the most prominent medical men of the recent past. By contrast, André Thevet’s

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large vernacular collection of lives and portraits of “illustrious men,” ‹rst published in 1584, included only two recent medical ‹gures: Agrippa—discussed chie›y in terms of magic—and Jean Fernel. The only other medical lives are a heavily moralized and highly laudatory treatment of Hippocrates, a discussion of Dioscorides asserting the superiority of his knowledge of plants to that of such well-known sixteenth-century naturalists as Ruel and Mattioli, and a hostile and fallacious account of Avicenna.27 The emphasis on disciplinary categories in the collection of biographies assembled by the Heidelberg schoolmaster Melchior Adam therefore stands in striking contrast to some other general collections of biographies and/or portraits widely known in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries.28 As noted earlier, Adam divided his biographies of German men of distinction—in the great majority of cases, Protestants—into separate sections for theologians, jurists, politici, philosophers, and medical men. The medical section, ‹rst published in 1620, records 125 sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century individuals drawn from all German-speaking regions of Europe and from the Low Countries. It is at once a collective portrait of a profession and, still today, one of the richest sources of bio-bibliographical information about many of the individual physicians included.29 Adam’s criteria for medical distinction evidently correlated closely with academic education and the production of learned works. In general, he laid much emphasis on the education of his medical subjects, frequently beginning with their early studies in liberal arts and calling attention to the acquisition of skills in philosophy and, especially, theology as well as medicine. Nevertheless, his concept of medical knowledge was by no means entirely bookish. He was appreciative of new endeavors in botany, natural history, and, to a lesser extent, anatomy, as well as of Paracelsus’s claims to innovative ideas and methods.30 The bibliographies of the subjects’ writings included in 106 of these 125 medical biographies provide a revealing overview of the uses to which this group of medical men put their learning. According to Adam, only 32 of the 106 physician authors wrote exclusively on medicine. All the rest wrote either on both medical and nonmedical subjects or, in ‹fteen cases, only on subjects other than medicine. Among nonmedical topics, botany and natural history represent a signi‹cant category, as do theology and religious controversy. But other writings address antiquities, civil history, poetry, classical philology, cosmography, and genealogy, to name only a few topics.31 The medical world portrayed by Adam is far from specialized in the modern sense, but he offers a collective portrait of a certain kind of disciplinary formation and its results, as well as of its intersection with the broader world of learning.


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But as already noted, Renaissance and early modern collective biographies included some devoted exclusively to lives of famous physicians. One pioneer of medical bio-bibliography in the early sixteenth century was the Lyon physician Symphorien Champier, whose De medicinae claris scriptoribus included some recent as well as ancient ‹gures. Another was Otto Brunfels, a medical practitioner better remembered today as the author of one of the most famous Renaissance herbals; his Catalogus illustrium medicorum sive de primis medicinae scriptoribus appeared at Strasbourg in 1530. By contrast, the Chorus illlustrium medicorum by the poet and intermittent medical practitioner Eobanus of Hesse consisted only of brief verses intended to accompany imaginary portraits of ancient physicians in a private library. A later example of collective medical biography from a more academic context is provided by the “lives of the illustrious physicians who have ›ourished in the whole world up to this time” published by the Louvain professor of Greek Petrus Castellanus at about the same time as he obtained a doctorate in medicine. At least one portrait book was devoted to physicians: the physician, historian, and maker of emblems Johannes Sambucus dedicated his Icones nominally to ancient and modern physicians and philosophers, but it was in reality devoted mostly to medical ‹gures (see, e.g., in chapter 6 of the present study, ‹g. 6).32

medical orations as vehicles for biography and history Medical orations, unlike medical biography as such, occupied a place in the institutional structure of academic medicine; hence, consideration of their academic setting and purposes as well as of their relation to the broader context of Renaissance rhetoric helps to illuminate the historical and biographical elements present in some of them. Like other academic orations, they were not a Renaissance innovation. In the medieval universities, orations— the early ones are better described as secular sermons—punctuated the rhythms of academic life. Typical occasions included graduation ceremonies, the opening of the academic year, and the beginning of a course of lectures. Audiences at such events were unlikely to be con‹ned to one faculty and might constitute a large part of the academic community. In the medical faculties of northern Italy and Montpellier, the practice of giving such orations was fully developed by the mid-fourteenth century. Among the few early examples that have been studied in detail are the graduation speeches of Gentile da Foligno (d. 1348), some of which have been edited and analyzed. These re›ect the in›uence of the ars predicandi, with the difference that Gentile took

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his texts from medical or philosophical auctoritates rather than from the Bible.33 In the course of the ‹fteenth century, developments paralleling those in other forms of oratory, sacred and secular, transformed both the content and the structure of the medical orations given on formal academic occasions.34 Thematic discourses presenting arguments based on chosen texts gave way to demonstrative praise. At Padua, where contacts between professors of medicine and local humanists were numerous and where the elder Vergerio pioneered the revival of classical oratory in the political sphere in the 1380s and 1390s, the transformation also began early in the medical faculty.35 Before 1414, Jacopo da Forlì praised medicine as the most outstanding of the arts, with citations from Boethius, Ovid, Virgil, and Cicero as well as medical sources.36 In the 1430s, Cristoforo Barzizza and Matteolo da Perugia were especially appreciated as medical orators, if one may judge by repeated invitations to give the inaugural oration of the academic year and by the survival of a number of the resulting speeches.37 In an oration devoted to praise of Hippocrates, Matteolo mingled approving references to scholastic medical authorities with the language of persuasion and visual imagery. He extolled Hippocrates’ admirable nature and most excellent intellect, describing the words of the Aphorisms as “like jewels” and as oracles to be contemplated rather than interpreted, which “we cannot doubt then emanated from a certain divine breast.”38 The self-image of medicine re›ected in such orations, far from being new, had been built up by scholastic medical authors extending back to the thirteenth century and before; as noted earlier, such authors also often expatiated on the topos of medicine as a divine gift.39 But the early ‹fteenth-century shift in oratorical style established a place for humanist epideictic rhetoric within ceremonial medical discourse, even though, in other respects, the relation of rhetoric and medicine continued to be many-sided and sometimes ambiguous. Some aspects of humanist medical learning seem profoundly attentive to rhetoric, at least as regards linguistic expression, performative elements, and the in›uence of these features in ancient models (most notably Galen himself).40 Yet where therapy was concerned, many authors warned physicians against the use of persuasion or repeated some version of the truism that patients are cured not by eloquence but by medicines, although others reminded them that by speaking well, they helped patients to have con‹dence in their advice and to understand instructions, which in turn facilitated cure.41 In the sixteenth century, orations on medical themes multiplied partly because of changing humanist views on the role of oratory and rhetoric in


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pedagogy. For example, Melanchthon’s more than twenty orations, or declamations, on medical topics may be the largest body of material of this type surviving from any one Renaissance author.42 Like the rest of his very numerous orations, they are the product of his belief that practice in declamatio should play a regular and central role in the Wittenberg curriculum (preferably replacing disputation) and of his habit of writing orations for delivery by Wittenberg colleagues or students.43 In content, they range from the broadly humanistic and historical (accounts of Hippocrates, Galen, and Avicenna; praise of medicine; denunciation of empirics) to the relatively specialized (exposition of particular Hippocratic aphorisms). A number of them were written for delivery by professors in the medical faculty, and a few were subsequently published in separate editions under those professors’ names as well as in Melanchthon’s works.44 In tone, sixteenth-century medical orations range from the earnest and religiously inspired to imitations of Lucianic satire. Their variations in content are equally wide. In addition to the standard general rhetorical topics (praise of medicine itself, praise of major ‹gures of medical antiquity, and so on), some orations deal with relatively specialized medical subject matter: examples include the causes of pestilence, deafness, and muteness.45 Whatever the occasion or announced topic, the oratorical genre was frequently hospitable to contemporary religious and scienti‹c polemic, either addressed separately or intertwined.46 As might be expected, many orations were routine productions that did little more than assemble well-worn truisms, though even these doubtless served an exemplary purpose and played a role in professional self-de‹nition and validation. For the essential task of praise of good medicine and good physicians (however de‹ned), ancient authors—literary, philosophical, and doxographical, secular and sacred, as well as or even more often than medical—yielded a large stock of rhetorical commonplaces about medicine’s origins, nobility, and usefulness, many of them conveniently collected in Polydore Vergil’s De inventoribus rerum and other encyclopedic compilations.47 But by no means all Renaissance medical orations or biographical accounts of physicians are conventional or routine. Some gave strong expression to their authors’ scienti‹c convictions or intellectual commitments: Johann Dryander used his inaugural speech in 1536 at the young University of Marburg to insist vehemently that the future of medical science lay with anatomy and to inveigh against squeamishness about handling cadavers.48 Yet others re›ect their authors’ engagement with history, travel writing, antiquarian erudition, or the exploration of individual character. A few authors incorporated genuinely substantial treatments of the his-

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tory of medicine or of their own medical faculty. The custom of giving orations at various academic ceremonies provided one of the major occasions for physicians—as for astronomers—to re›ect on the history of their discipline. To be sure, few writers of medical orations and related productions treated historical topics at such length or in such detail as Gian Giacomo Bartolotti, a professor at the university of Ferrara, in the disquisition on the history of medicine with which he introduced his 1499 lectures on a section of Avicenna’s Canon of Medicine on principles of therapy, or as Gabriel Naudé 130 years later, in his panegyric On the Antiquity and Dignity of the Paris Medical School—works to which I shall return later in this chapter.49 But summaries of or commonplaces about medical history are a standard feature, found in numerous examples of the genre. Such use of history by physicians was evidently closely linked with rhetoric and enhanced by the Renaissance revival of epideictic rhetoric. Antiquarian interests might also ‹nd a place in medical orations. The eighteen young physicians who achieved their medical degrees at Paris in 1560 listened to graduation orations on an antiquarian topic from a lawyer. Jean Le Veil, the author and speaker (an identity that cannot always be assumed), was an enthusiast for ancient athletics, and his choice of topic seems to have been chie›y inspired by the idea of graduation as testimony to strenuous endeavor.50 After three introductory orations, he delivered one for each of the eighteen graduands. Each individual encomium consists of a capsule biography followed by moralization on a distinguishing feature of the candidate. Thus, the name of Jean Nestora reminded Le Vieil of the Homeric Nestor and inspired him to truisms about sage advice.51 But the three lengthy general introductory orations are all devoted to extended comparisons of the physical exercises engaged in by the ancients and the intellectual struggles of Parisian medical students. In the ‹rst, after pointing out that motion was necessary to everything in the universe, from the heavenly bodies down to plants, Le Vieil led his audience through the Spartan practice of hardening both boys and girls by exposure to harsh climatic conditions and scanty food (noting with apparent approval that Spartan girls, unlike girls in other cities, were not allowed soft upbringing indoors) and through the Persian education of youth in hunting. He moved on to Solon’s laws regarding the physical education of Athenian youth, Plato’s recommendation of gymnastics for both sexes and all ages (“pueros et puellas, viros et matronas”), and the Olympic games. He noted that this tradition of ancient athletics ‹nally deteriorated into the cruel Roman games, rightly abolished by Christianity. Le Vieil opined, however, that the training of young French nobles in arms and horsemanship,


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speci‹cally the practice of tournaments, was more or less equivalent to the valuable ancient Greek insistence on physical training (this less than a year after the disastrous death of Henri II from an injury received in a tournament). He managed to ‹nd his way back to university medical education by declaring that philosophical debate served the equally important purpose of providing exercise for the soul.52 In the second of these orations, he compared the young medici with victors in the Olympic games and recipients of a Roman triumph; in the third, he equated Parisian graduation insignia and scholarly privileges with the prizes and privileges accorded to victors in the ancient games. In various versions, the theme of travel or of wisdom gathered from afar provided the authors of orations with the opportunity to relate ancient practice, precept, or doxography to a sort of prosopography of the contemporary world of medical learning, interest in all kinds of natural and human particulars, and esteem for learned travel. In 1579, Christoph Schilling, a young German physician, arrived at Montpellier on the last stage of a medical and philosophical grand tour of Italy and France. With the aid of letters of introduction from his mentors Crato von Krafftheim and Erastus and with, it would appear, ‹nancial assistance from Andreas Dudith, he had visited an impressive roster of famous professors of medicine and other intellectuals throughout Italy, from Aldrovandi to Telesio and many more besides. At the University of Montpellier, Laurent Joubert, then chancellor of the faculty of medicine, awarded him the doctorate of philosophy and medicine. Schilling’s trip to Italy and France reminded him—as he remarked in a grateful letter to his mentors and patron—of the journeys in search of the wisdom of Egypt that were supposedly undertaken by “Orpheus, Pythagoras, Solon, Thales, Socrates, and Plato.”53 But in the oration Joubert himself gave on this occasion, titled On the Quali‹cations of a Future Excellent Physician, Schilling’s travels become the pretext for an encomium to a contemporary international professional and intellectual community of learning. From Germany, Switzerland, Italy, and France, Joubert listed by name some thirty professors of medicine, with their academic af‹liations and principal achievements; a few other philosophers or humanist intellectuals; and one poet—each of whom had apparently provided Schilling with a testimonial.54 At the same time, Joubert praised Schilling himself because he had perfected comparative knowledge of medicine by arduous and lengthy travels to so many centers of medical learning.55 In this instance, themes of imitation of antiquity, of professional biography (collective and individual, ancient and modern), and of travel all overlapped and intertwined.

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In one type of oration, biographical material was almost invariably present. Although academic orations in general constitute a branch of secular rhetoric, funeral or memorial orations for professors or students by academic colleagues also bear a relation to traditions of funeral preaching. In the early modern period, especially in the Lutheran Church, new developments transformed a long antecedent practice of funeral preaching. Between about 1550 and 1750, in Lutheran areas of Germany, it became common practice to print funeral sermons with biographical information about the deceased along with other commemorative material.56 As one might expect, most of the subjects of printed funeral orations or sermons belonged to noble, professional, or administrative classes; in a sample study of 1,208 such publications, more than one-third commemorated academics, among them physicians.57 In some universities, as at Tübingen beginning in 1537, orations became a statutory requirement at academic funeral ceremonies. The life of the humanist, botanical author, and Tübingen professor of medicine Leonhart Fuchs by his colleague Georg Hizler, professor of Greek and Latin, was originally delivered as a funeral oration and subsequently included in an edition of Fuchs’s collected works.58 Hizler provided a detailed biographical narrative carefully placed in the context of current events, a bibliography of Fuchs’s writings, and an account of his success as a medical practitioner (in curing the “English sweat”), university administrator, and teacher of anatomy and other branches of medicine. He balanced praise of Fuchs’s classical learning, scienti‹c knowledge, and copious medical writings with anecdotes illustrative of his Lutheran piety—beginning with his decision, during youthful studies at Ingolstadt, to follow teachers who were “severely persecuted by the monks.”59 As in this case, funeral orations for Tübingen professors in all faculties were most frequently delivered by members of the arts and law faculties. But the preparation of the oration involved assembling material from relatives or professional colleagues of the deceased, sometimes in the form of a written biographical sketch. In at least one instance, the funeral oration for the mathematician and physician Philip Apian (1531–89), the biographical account seems to have followed categories standard in the explanatory text accompanying astrological genitures, showing how the disposition of the astrological houses affected various aspects of Apian’s life. The speaker on this occasion, as at a number of other Tübingen funeral orations, was Erhard Cellius, professor of poetry and history, who was also the author of a portrait book presenting images and versi‹ed lives of Tübingen professors and whose interests thus seem to have encompassed historical, astrological, and biographical narrative.60


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In other instances, the author and speaker of a funeral oration for a colleague in medicine or a related ‹eld was himself a professor of medicine. One striking example is Everhard Vorst’s oration on the “life and death” of the naturalist Carolus Clusius (Charles de l’Ecluse). Originally delivered at a Leiden University funeral ceremony for Clusius on April 7, 1609, Vorst’s oration (accompanied by the usual collection of complimentary poems) was, like Hizler’s, subsequently printed with a posthumous edition of the subject’s works. Clusius’s early training was in law, but after abandoning law to study medicine and botany at Montpellier with Rondelet, he devoted himself entirely to botanical travel, study, and writing. Toward the end of his life, he became professor of botany and prefect and designer of the celebrated botanic garden at Leiden University.61 Vorst duly recounted Clusius’s studies, teachers, patrons, writings, translations of various vernacular botanical works into Latin, and friendships with poets and intellectuals, not forgetting to mention his year at Wittenberg and personal knowledge of Melanchthon. But Vorst’s own medical background and awareness of current developments in botany also gave him a real appreciation of his subject’s scienti‹c achievements. He reserved his greatest enthusiasm for Clusius’s profound knowledge of plants, gained, as he pointed out, by exceptionally close observation during a life of travel through many regions of Europe. Vorst believed knowledge of medicinal plants to be more essential to the task of healing than any other part of medicine, regarded the development of medicinal botany as one of the most important achievements of his age, and grouped Clusius with the most important modern medicinal botanists, listed by name. Yet he was equally appreciative of Clusius’s antiquarian and ethnographic interests, his work as a cartographer and chorographer, and his knowledge of modern as well as ancient languages.62 Vorst concluded that everywhere Clusius went, his keen observation (“mente et oculis attentissimis”) encompassed “not only natural things that grew there . . . but whatever pertained to the place, its antiquities, and the customs of the people.”63

ancient and modern lives and doctrines Antiquity and Arabic Medical Authors Renaissance accounts of the origins and early history of medicine also normally contained a large biographical component. Such accounts were shaped not only by the general in›uence of the ancient models of life writing and doxography already alluded to in this chapter but also by ancient texts

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speci‹cally concerning the history of medicine (see chapter 1). Some of the most important of these—notably Galen’s discussions of the medical sects and Celsus’s proem—largely subordinated biography to organization based on doctrines or schools of thought. But others focused on life histories or achievements attributed to individual physicians, salient examples being the Hellenistic pseudepigrapha and biographical writing that accumulated around the name of Hippocrates and, indeed, the frequently hostile accounts of medicine and physicians in Pliny. In addition, a variety of literary, historical, and encyclopedic writers repeated origin myths that attributed the invention, foundation, or restoration of medicine, as of other disciplines, to individuals, human or divine. Only some of the material just referred to had been directly available in the West in the medieval centuries. Nevertheless, much was transmitted indirectly and via compendia. Medieval medical and encyclopedic writers were familiar with accounts of ancient medical doctrines or schools, anecdotes about the lives of ancient physicians, and origin stories concerning medicine. Galen’s views on the sects were known, directly or indirectly; Pliny was read; and although few studied Celsus before the ‹fteenth century, there were important exceptions.64 Among them, as noted earlier, was Pietro d’Abano (d. 1315), whose principal work, the Conciliator, includes a summary of the history of medicine that both cites Celsus by name and shows that Pietro had read the proem to De medicina with some care.65 Even as the available sources of information about ancient medical lives changed signi‹cantly in the ‹fteenth and sixteenth centuries, so did the uses made of those sources, as the following few examples will show. By the late ‹fteenth century, authors could draw on a wider range of sources than could their medieval predecessors for lives of ancient physicians, as for other varieties of medical history. Moreover, by the sixteenth century, approaches to the most important medical lives—for example, those of Hippocrates, Galen, and Avicenna—involved efforts to repudiate myth or to ‹nd and use authentic sources, although the success of these efforts was often limited both by problems of attribution and by what one may term ideological factors or preexisting assumptions. One of the most widely disseminated general reference works, Polydore Vergil’s De inventoribus rerum, ‹rst published in 1499, assembles origin stories about the founders and invention of medicine not just from long-known Latin sources—Ovid, Macrobius, Celsus, and Pliny—but also from a range of more recently available Greek historians and other writers, including Diodorus Siculus, Clement of Alexandria, Herodotus, and Strabo.66 Bar-


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tolotti’s almost exactly contemporaneous presentation of the history of medicine brought together all the principal ancient approaches to the subject: origin stories, accounts of doctrines, and biography. In addition, Bartolotti’s own interest in life writing seems to have been shaped by his reading of Plutarch’s Lives, which he cited twice at the beginning of his work.67 His account (which, as already noted, Bartolotti intended as an introduction to his lectures on principles of therapy) began with a lengthy recital of various origin stories about medicine—as arising from divination, through knowledge of herbs, from experience, from chance discoveries, from dreams, from magic, from astrology, among the Indians, among the Egyptians, and from the invention of mythical ‹gures. But once Bartolotti arrived at the Greeks, he shifted to a historiographical framework that mixed an account of the medical sects with lives of physicians. Moreover, he used a biographical structure to bring the history of medicine down to his own day and to link ‹gures of his own environment in a chain of medical and surgical lives stretching back to the revered ancients. Bartolotti began the rational sect with Hippocrates, but he wrote that modern representatives of rational medicine and surgery included “Francesco Bartolotti of Parma . . . [and] his brother and my father, Pellegrino Bartolotti, truly the glory of the surgeons of his time.” He wrote that other modern physicians eminent in the rational sect included not only the celebrated medical scholastics Taddeo Alderotti and Pietro d’Abano but also “my teachers Antonio Cittadini and Sebastiano dell’Aquila.”68 Very occasionally, too, when referring to ‹gures of late antiquity and the Middle Ages, Bartolotti made some efforts at chronological precision or synchronism, informing his readers that “Avicenna lived seventy years after Rhasis and Johannes Mesue lived in 1160 AD.”69 When one turns to the content and sources of lives of the most famous medical authorities, a similar picture of expansion and development emerges. In contrast to the Hippocratic corpus, Galen’s works were, as already noted, a rich source of biographical and bibliographical information about their author. Hence, what transformed Renaissance accounts of Galen’s life was primarily access and attention to a wider range of his writings. Yet salient developments in sixteenth-century biographies of Galen were, as Vivian Nutton has shown, twofold. On the one hand, writers were increasingly ready to discard medieval legends about Galen (among them his instruction in women’s medicine by Cleopatra and his conversation with Mary Magdalen about Christ’s miracles of healing), in favor of evidence drawn from his own statements about his career, writings, travels, and opinions. On the other hand, the authors displayed an equally strong tendency to present Galen in

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moralized terms, as an ideal model of the good physician.70 Symphorien Champier, who published a life of Galen in 1517, was among the pioneers in this regard and may have helped to set the pattern. He discarded the more colorful myths about Galen and instead stressed his moral virtues. Subsequent authors were even more emphatic. According to Otto Brunfels, Galen was especially noted for his contempt for glory and for vulgar fame (not always the impression one takes away from reading Galen’s own works), while Antonio Fumanelli claimed in 1557 that his biography of Galen would be “an example for all those who desire to lead an upright life imbued with good mores.” In 1570, the Wittenberg professor Abraham Werner combined both themes in a graduation oration in which he recounted a detailed, historical, and nonmythological life of Galen based largely on statements in the latter’s own writings—and used it as a foil to denounce the moral and scienti‹c failings of Paracelsans.71 Not only the lives of the great Greek medical authorities but also that of the medieval Arabic author Avicenna (Ibn Sina, d. 1037) underwent a Renaissance transformation. Despite the anti-Arabism of some medical humanists, Avicenna’s encyclopedic Canon of Medicine, translated into Latin in the twelfth century, continued to be used in medicial teaching and as a work of reference throughout the sixteenth century (and in some contexts, even later). Prior to the sixteenth century, very little information about Avicenna’s life from Arabic sources seems to have been available in the West. Instead, persistent legends endowed him with royal birth, a connection with Cordoba, a fatal rivalry with Averroës, and (sometimes) St. Augustine as a correspondent. These stories—and others equally improbable—continued to circulate in general works until the mid-seventeenth century, but humanist physicians involved in the preparation of editions of the Canon began to criticize some of them in the ‹rst half of the sixteenth. Furthermore, relatively accurate information about Avicenna’s life was available from 1544, when a free Latin translation of the biography by Avicenna’s pupil Abu Ubayd al-Juzjani (latinized as Sorsanus) was included in the edition of the Canon published in Venice.72

Recent Medical Lives: Guillaume Plancy and Laurent Joubert as Biographers In addition to the range and variety of medical life writing so far described, some authors produced well-developed biographical accounts of modern physicians that were composed neither as part of a collection of illustrious


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lives nor as funeral oratory. Filial piety inspired one early example of this type: the Ferrarese humanist Sozzino Benzi’s highly rhetorical life of his father, Ugo, written about 1440. Sozzino intended the life of Ugo—a professor of medicine at the University of Siena and elsewhere and a philosopher of, according to his son, great contemporary renown—to preface a collection of Ugo’s works. This plan was never carried out, although Sozzino’s idea was prescient.73 In the following century, the increasingly elaborate front matter in printed medical (as other) books often came to include a life of the author, sometimes accompanied by a portrait. Two especially striking examples of sixteenth-century writing of medical lives, Guillaume Plancy’s life of Jean Fernel and Laurent Joubert’s life of Guillaume Rondelet, seem to have been conceived as independent works. Plancy edited and wrote the preface for the 1567 posthumous publication of Fernel’s Universa medicina, but he did not include (perhaps had not yet written) his life of Fernel. Instead, it was ‹rst printed as part of the front matter of the edition of Universa medicina published in 1607, more than thirty years after Plancy’s own death.74 Joubert’s life of Rondelet (d. 1566) was written in 1578 and published shortly thereafter as part of Joubert’s (not Rondelet’s) Opera latina.75 Unlike the younger Benzi, both Plancy and Joubert were themselves physicians and medical authors. Joubert in particular had a successful and prestigious medical career at the University of Montpellier, where he succeeded Rondelet as chancellor of the faculty of medicine and did much to carry on the vigorous tradition of botanical teaching that Rondelet had established.76 In writing the lives of the men with whom they had studied and served their professional apprenticeship, both were recording a relation that clearly had a strong personal dimension—especially in the case of Joubert— but was nonetheless primarily professional. In both cases, moreover, they were describing very prominent and celebrated ‹gures who were in some respects controversial. In providing accounts of their famous teachers and older contemporaries, they included lively, individual, and not always ›attering details, while simultaneously revealing much about their own, sometimes ambiguous responses to their subjects’ activities and to major developments in sixteenth-century science and medicine. Plancy was an enthusiastic medical Hellenist, who had studied arts under the great French humanist Guillaume Budé before taking a degree in medicine and ‹nally becoming a professor of medicine at Paris. Besides the biography of Fernel, his other works are mostly editions or translations of Greek medical and philosophical texts, including a posthumously published volume of Budé’s own Greek letters. But the de‹ning period of his life may well have

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been the ten years spent as a medical student and, subsequently, graduate assistant in Fernel’s household. He stayed with Fernel until the latter’s death, his last service to his old teacher being the performance of his autopsy.77 At one level, Plancy’s life presents a straightforward account of Fernel’s career, tracing his rise from relatively humble origins to a professorship of medicine at Paris, his struggles against opponents in the medical faculty, and his ‹nal achievement of being appointed royal physician. His family relations, health, personal habits, appearance, and devotion to his patients are all duly noted. But it is evident that when it came to describing Fernel’s intellectual accomplishments and professional contributions, Plancy confronted a more complex task. Fernel was the author of a comprehensive overview of medicine titled Medicina (Universa medicina in later, expanded editions), which came to be a widely used standard work. Although the book contained some innovative elements that aroused resistence, it rapidly gained appreciation for its general adherence to and systematic presentation of Galenism (representing the mainstream in medicine until well into the seventeenth century), clear organization, relative empiricism, and convenience. Yet at the same time, Fernel was also famous, or notorious, for idiosyncratic ideas, opposed by many, on speci‹c topics—spiritus, occult causes, disease transmission, and some aspects of therapy. Modern historians have been as divided as early modern physicians in their evaluation of Fernel, but recently they have generally tended to move away from an earlier positivist emphasis on his empiricism and modernity and toward fuller analysis of his views on spiritus and occult causes and of the in›uence in his thought of Renaissance Platonism and the concept of natural magic.78 It seems likely that Plancy’s own commitment to the new humanist medicine encouraged him to present Fernel in the same light. On several occasions, he glossed over or disassociated himself from aspects of Fernel suggestive either of the medicine of the late Middle Ages or of nonelite forms of medical practice. The ‹rst part of the life admits that Fernel’s early studies in arts at Paris took place under a “barbaric” (i.e., scholastic) curriculum but stresses Fernel’s efforts to remedy the defects in his education by reading Cicero, Aristotle, Celsus, and Ficino’s translation of Plato.79 Plancy also found it necessary to explain away Fernel’s desire to keep his remedies secret until after he had published a book on the subject, and openly deplored his adherence to the medieval practice of inspecting urines, a traditional form of diagnosis that in the sixteenth century was moving from being the symbol of a respected physician to the mark of a quack.80 In addition, as has often been noted, Plancy played down Fernel’s interest


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in mathematics, astronomy, and, above all, astrology. He barely mentioned Fernel’s authorship of treatises on these subjects, claiming that he abandoned interest in them early in his career. These remarks, especially Plancy’s insistence that Fernel repudiated judicial astrology, could perhaps suggest reservations about the latter’s interest in occult aspects of nature. But it seems more likely that they may simply re›ect Plancy’s (rather than Fernel’s) own views on judicial astrology, the one branch of astrology subject to ecclesiastical disapproval.81 Certainly, Plancy judged Fernel’s treatise on hidden causes (the work in which his distinctive views on celestial spiritus and other such matters were most fully expounded) in highly positive terms.82 Moreover, Plancy took care to include this treatise in the 1567 edition of Universa medicina, which he edited. Whatever its elisions, Plancy’s portrait of Fernel as medical author and practitioner is in some respects insightful. In the ‹rst place, he clearly recognized the nature of the contribution of Fernel’s Physiologia (later incorporated as book 1 of Fernel’s Medicina) to medical pedagogy. The originality and signi‹cance of that work lay less in its doctrines—which, as already noted, mostly embodied a modi‹ed Galenism—than in its presentation. As Plancy pointed out, in an age when most medical teaching was carried on via exposition of ancient medical texts, Fernel both pioneered the production of a single comprehensive and systematic medical textbook and used it himself in teaching.83 Plancy also stressed Fernel’s emphasis on “experience” (emphasis shared, to be sure, with other physicians of his day) and his interest in relating symptoms to internal conditions of the body. And in calling attention to Fernel’s search for effective remedies, Plancy touched on one aspect of the appeal of Universa medicina for several generations of physicians: namely, its usefulness as a handbook of therapy.84 Plancy further provides an illuminating picture of Fernel as scienti‹c author at work and of his young assistant’s role in the enterprise. According to Plancy, Fernel insisted on the importance of using local herbal remedies rather than exotica and on carefully observing their effects in individual cases. But when Fernel set out to write a treatise on simple remedies, Plancy’s job as his assistant was to assemble a collection of excerpts on the subject from ancient authorities, to which Fernel could ‹rst compare his own results and then add any new or contrary observations.85 In the mid-sixteenth century, excerpting, compiling, and acknowledging ancient authority were still essential parts of making a scienti‹c book, even one likely to be de‹ned as reformist or neoteric. As the vernacular treatises on laughter and “popular errors” for which

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Laurent Joubert is best remembered today suggest, his interests ranged widely across psychological and social as well as medical topics.86 When compared with Plancy’s account of Fernel, Joubert’s biography of Rondelet is much richer in detailed personal information, in social context, and in psychological characterization and interpretation. Joubert traced Rondelet’s career almost year by year, paying careful attention to the interaction of family history, ‹nances, and professional activity. To give only one example, he detailed how ‹nancial help from Rondelet’s much older sister-in-law both provided support for his family before his medical practice became pro‹table and induced him to continue his career in Montpellier rather than accepting a patron’s offer to travel to Venice.87 Joubert celebrated Rondelet’s achievements—especially, and deservedly, his work on the natural history of ‹sh.88 But he laid equal or more stress on Rondelet as anatomist, recording his early studies with Guinter of Andernach at Paris, his role in bringing an anatomy theater to Montpellier, and the enthusiasm for the subject that led him to dissect the cadaver of his own infant son and to use his twins’ afterbirth as teaching material.89 Far from being a rhetorical encomium (in the manner of Sozzino Benzi’s life of Ugo) or an exemplary medical life (in the manner of Hizler’s funeral oration for Fuchs), the life of Rondelet is as explicit about its subject’s shortcomings, professional and otherwise, as his achievements. In words quoted in part at the beginning of this chapter, Joubert characterized Rondelet as an exceptionally dedicated, hardworking, and effective teacher, a judgment con‹rmed by the accounts of other pupils, among them Felix Platter.90 He emphasized Rondelet’s intellectual contacts among physicians and naturalists throughout Europe and the respect in which he was held.91 But Joubert was critical of Rondelet’s haste and carelessness as a writer, his dissipation of his brilliant intelligence and energies across many ‹elds and authors (“now theology, next agriculture, dialectic, now different parts of medicine, surgery, anatomy, simples, and this or that author”), and his habit of leaving works un‹nished while he turned to new projects. The result was that he always needed someone to edit his writing, a service Clusius was called on to perform for the book on ‹sh.92 In commenting on Rondelet’s personal character, Joubert observed—with supporting detail—that Rondelet was careless and extravagant about money, credulous and easily deceived, irascible, and “not a little addicted to women.” But for all that, Joubert presented an attractive portrait of Rondolet as a generous, hospitable, and convivial man who loved good food, music, architecture, and jokes and who had many friends.93 Joubert was frank about the sometimes dif‹cult character of his own rela-


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tions with Rondelet, describing both great closeness and the cooling off that ensued after the older man failed to induce Joubert to marry ‹rst one and then another of the Rondelet daughters. At that point, Rondelet’s affection for Joubert turned to hatred, but when Joubert continued to treat him with ‹lial respect, Rondelet “could neither [continue] to hate . . . nor openly express affection” (non odisse posset . . . nec palam amorem explicaret). Joubert was ‹nally assured of Rondelet’s esteem only after his teacher’s death, when he learned that he had been named his literary executor and had been publicly declared the most trusted of Rondelet’s many pupils.94 The one area where Rondelet’s reputation was truly controversial and where Joubert’s account of him may show signs of reserve is that of religion. Although the Vita Rondeletii says little on the subject and makes clear that Rondelet had Catholic patrons (one of them a cardinal), it includes two brief anecdotes suggestive of his sympathy for or adherence to the Reformers. One recounts how Rondelet burned some of his theological books when his friend Guillaume Pellicier, a bishop and humanist who for a time favored the Reformers, was arrested. The other records an incident when he had been visiting a patient near the Spanish border and had hurried back “because he had fallen under suspicion from the Spanish on account of religion.”95 But Joubert appended to the Vita a detailed account of Rondelet’s last illness and death as provided by one of his relatives, a theologian, who had been present.96 This narrative is replete with references to religious consolation drawn from the Psalms and the writings of St. Paul and thus is apparently intended to make Rondelet’s religious adherence unmistakable, if not explicit. Even though (presumably for prudential reasons), Joubert was unwilling in his own person to clarify Rondelet’s religious beliefs, he nonetheless produced a biography remarkable for its detailed and informative narrative, vivid characterization, and effort at weighing its subject’s intellectual strengths and weaknesses. Plancy’s life of Fernel and Joubert’s life of Rondelet, written within about a decade of one another, seem to re›ect different approaches to biography. Plancy’s presentation of Fernel remains in essentials an exemplary professional life, despite some elements of criticism. Exemplarity is much less easy to discern in Joubert’s treatment of Rondelet.

gabriel naud É between biography, bibliography, and intellectual history Plancy and Joubert, unlike though they were in some respects, were both shaped by the medical humanism of the mid-sixteenth century. Gabriel

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Naudé (1600–1653) already inhabited a different intellectual universe, one marked by the in›uence of stoicism and skepticism and by a more critical approach to some aspects of the learned tradition. Naudé studied medicine at the University of Paris; received a medical degree from Padua; wrote a few short quaestiones on topics relating to medicine; held an honorary appointment as a royal physician; had close and long-lasting friendships in medical circles in both Italy and France; and, throughout his life, edited and propagated the medical works of others. But he never practiced medicine.97 Rather, as an author of works on many different topics, a librarian, a bibliographer, and an editor, he was a member of a famous circle of early seventeenth-century French intellectuals and antiquaries and a signi‹cant ‹gure in the transmission of contemporary Italian culture to France. As recent scholarship has suggested, his intellectual enterprise as a whole seems directed toward a critical history of learning, informed by both encyclopedism and skepticism.98 Naudé’s antiquarian and historical interests ranged widely, and later in his life, he gave much attention to political ideas. Yet two themes that recur (separately or together) in several works written early in his career are the history of the University of Paris and the history of medicine. He explored these themes both in innovative vernacular contributions to cultural history and in the traditional—and still ›ourishing—Latin genres of medical oratory and medical life writing. Naudé’s interest in medical and university history was aroused during his own medical studies at the University of Paris. His teacher there was René Moreau, who, in Naudé’s words, “ingeniously planned an extremely subtle and elaborate history of the whole of medicine.”99 If Moreau planned such a comprehensive project, he seems never to have completed it. But he produced an edition and commentary of the famous Regimen sanitatis Salernitanum, to which Naudé (described by Moreau as “a most learned youth, and very versed in the reading of good authors”) contributed by providing one of the three manuscripts on which the edition was based.100 Moreau supplied the edition with a lengthy historical introduction, in which he made it clear that he had little use for most previous efforts at medical history. Every doctor and medical student knows the poem Schola salernitana by heart and quotes it on all occasions; but up to now there is no one who has handed its origin down to us or explained when this outstanding work was composed. . . . [T]hat was the destiny and calamity of all the arts, medicine among them, for which no one, right up to the present, has taken care to provide illustration and history. . . . We scarcely have anything to say of the constitutions and laws of the ‹rst


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schools of Cos, Cnidus, and Alexandria. In centuries gone by and in our own time there were a number of people who wrote histories of the medical schools, but so unskillfully and unsuccessfully that they described trite and vulgar things at great length, but only touched the surface of dif‹cult and illustrious ones, like a dog licking the Nile.101 Moreau’s own history of the medieval school of Salerno draws on both chronicles and medical texts, includes chronology (some of it reasonably accurate, placing Constantinus Africanus “around 1060” and Roger I’s legislation concerning medicine “around 1100”), correlates medical history with events in ecclesiastical and political history, and offers a lengthy excursus on the history of medical and other didactic poetry.102 Moreau also turned his attention to the university medicine of the previous century, writing lives of leading professors in the medical faculty of the early sixteenth-century University of Paris. Judging by the life of Pierre Brissot (1478–1522) that he prefaced to his edition of Brissot’s sole surviving work, he searched university records, the subject’s own writings, and other contemporary medical works to construct a chronologically speci‹c account focused much less on the individual than on academic controversy at the University of Paris in which that individual was involved.103 Thus, the life of Brissot focuses mainly on Brissot’s contribution to anti-Arabism, the Galenic revival, and the reform of bloodletting. Perhaps under Moreau’s in›uence, Guy Patin, a pupil of Moreau and friend of Naudé, also spent time in the 1620s “curiously researching the antiquities of our medical school at Paris.”104 Interest in medical history seems therefore to have been a strong component of Naudé’s own medical background and training. Certainly, medicine is well represented both in the ideal library described in Naudé’s bibliographical Advis pour dresser une bibliothèque and in the two of his historical works that are most original in conception: the Apologie pour tous les grands personnages qui ont esté faussement soupçonnez de magie and the Addition à l’histoire de Louis XI.105 In some respects, the Apologie is, as Paul Nelles points out, very much in the tradition of earlier biographical collections about famous men of learning. But in other respects, it re›ects newer, sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century developments in historical writing. It belongs among early modern histories of the sciences as branches of universal knowledge, and it employs close reading of sources and historical contextualization in the service of critical exegesis.106 In it, Naudé systematically examined and rejected allegations that learned men of the past had practiced demonic magic (as distinct from natural magic, de‹ned, more or less, as practical or empirical

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understanding of nature), and he offered contextual historical explanations for the accusations. He devoted a lengthy chapter to the refutation of any association between medicine and magic, exonerating, among others, Arnald of Villanova, Pietro d’Abano, and Paracelsus.107 The goal of the Apologie as a whole, as of other of Naudé’s enterprises, is to divorce learning from credulity and superstition, but recent polemics in which members of the University of Paris medical faculty denounced Paracelsians, some of whom had been favored at the court of Henri IV, provided an additional context for the chapter on medicine.108 Naudé shared to the full his friend Guy Patin’s orthodox academic Galenist dislike of alchemists in general and Paracelsians in particular, as is evident from his insistence that Arnald of Villanova was not “a miserable and vagabond chemist” and from the strongly anti-Paracelsian tone of his oration to the Paris medical faculty. Yet Naudé’s endeavor to frame a history of learning that was at once skeptical and comprehensive is nowhere clearer than in his treatment of Paracelsus: though Naudé’s Apologie defends Paracelsus from the charge of magic only by accusing him of intentional obscurity and charlatanry, Naudé’s Advis lists Paracelsus among radical innovators whose works were an essential component of the ideal library.109 Medicine similarly takes a fairly prominent place among the arts and sciences in the Addition à l’histoire de Louis XI, a work intended to supply the cultural and intellectual history missing from Commynes’s political narrative of this king’s reign. To counter the idea that Louis XI (r. 1461–83) had been indifferent to learning in general and humanistic culture in particular, Naudé assembled evidence for Louis’s contacts with humanist courts abroad, enlargement of the royal library, patronage of learned men, and interest in the University of Paris and underscored the spread of humanism and printing in France during Louis’s reign.110 But in the same work Naudé also provided a summary of medieval intellectual history in which standard remarks about Latin scholastic “barbarism” coexist with a highly positive evaluation of Arab contributions to philosophy, astronomy, and especially medicine. His assessment is the more striking in that it contrasts so strongly with the routine antiArabism of Moreau, Naudé’s teacher, who may well have been one source of his interest in medieval history in the ‹rst place.111 Examples of Louis’s patronage of learned men and intellectual contacts abroad include his efforts to induce the physician, astrologer, and heterodox humanist Galeotto Marzio of Narni to leave the court of Matthias Corvinus in Hungary and come to France, as well as a list of other physicians in attendance at the royal court or teaching in the university.112 Louis’s care for the royal library is illustrated by an account of his request to borrow a medical work from the faculty of med-


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icine of the University of Paris to have a copy made—an account that Naudé based on documentary evidence from university sources, in the shape of a letter from the faculty insisting on a substantial security for the loan.113 As evidence of “the great desire and affection that he [Louis] had for the progress and advancement of the sciences,” Naudé offered a ‹fteenth-century chronicler’s story of the successful appeal to the king by the physicians and surgeons of Paris for permission to make an incision in the body of a condemned criminal “in order to see the places where these maladies [sc. stone] are solidi‹ed.” His invocation of Celsus’s account of vivisections performed on criminals in Ptolemaic Egypt by Herophilus and Erasistratus leaves no doubt that he intended to present the anecdote as a report of a vivisection.114 Thus, in these two works, Naudé integrated aspects of the medieval and Renaissance history of medicine and of the Paris medical faculty into what seems an innovative endeavor to develop new forms of cultural and intellectual history. But the same themes and something of the same approach also emerge in his contributions to medical oratory and life writing. His oration on the occasion of a Paris medical graduation ceremony took the traditional form of an introductory portion on a general topic followed by brief laudatory remarks about each of the medical graduands.115 Yet he devoted the ‹rst part neither to generalized praise of medicine nor to any aspect of Greek antiquity but to the institutional history of the university and its medical faculty, citing both narrative and documentary sources. Moreover, asserting he could ‹nd no trace of medicine at Paris before the ‹rst third of the twelfth century, Naudé began his discussion of academic institutions with the early thirteenth.116 The interest of Naudé and Moreau in the documentation of the medieval past was shared by other early seventeenth-century French érudits; Nicolas Fabri de Peiresc, one of Naudé’s friends and correspondents, “collected Merovingian coins, explored churches, copied tomb inscriptions, and did not judge worth on the standard of classical antiquity.”117 Naudé also was not the ‹rst learned medical man to interest himself in university history; the history of the university of Cambridge by the medical humanist John Caius dates from more than half a century earlier. But Naudé’s relatively well-informed chronology offers a striking contrast to the assertions of Caius and other sixteenth- and seventeenth-century English antiquaries that Oxford and Cambridge had been founded either by early medieval Anglo-Saxon rulers or in a remote—and mythical—British antiquity (as a Cambridge man, Caius was a vigorous proponent of Cambridge’s superior antiquity, holding that Cambridge had been founded by a Spanish prince in the fourth century BCE).118

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Naudé’s works so far mentioned were all products of his youth, written before the twelve years he spent in Italy from 1630 to 1642; there, his wide intellectual contacts included, as always, a number of learned physicians.119 Soon after his return to France, Naudé edited Girolamo Cardano’s autobiography from a manuscript he had acquired in Italy, accompanying it with his own “judgment” of the sixteenth-century physician polymath.120 This ‹rst publication of Cardano’s autobiography made available a major source for the history of the sciences and intellectual enthusiasms of the previous century. Naudé’s iudicium combines sharp criticism of the personal failings that Cardano himself revealed in his autobiography (especially credulity about ghosts and the paranormal) with profound admiration for Cardano’s learning, and it joins a critique of astrology with a justi‹cation of Cardano’s astrological commitment, on grounds of cultural context and historical precedent. The overall thrust of the iudicium has been variously evaluated, but however understood, it represents an innovative contribution to the long tradition of medical life writing as well as to the critical history of the arts and sciences. Memorializing the past of medicine had been part of the task of western European medical writers since the Middle Ages; moreover, neither academic medical orations nor life writing were Renaissance innovations. But in the ‹fteenth century and still more in the sixteenth, improved access to a wider range of ancient medical and doxographical sources, the enhanced status and signi‹cance of biography, the multiplication of bio-bibliographical reference works, and the revival of classical rhetoric combined to enlarge the scope of accounts of the past of medicine and the lives of medical men. Although many medical orations continued to present a vague and formulaic invocation of medicine’s origins, founders, and schools of thought, some incorporated increasingly detailed historical or biographical content. Medical lives— ancient, medieval, and modern—proliferated in reference books of many kinds and in the front matter of medical works. Their writers discarded some biographical myths about ancient and medieval medical authors and occasionally treated lives of recent physicians in great detail. The works described in this chapter by no means exhaust this body of material, although I think they are reasonably representative of it. In particular, the contributions of Plancy, Joubert, and Naudé were chosen to exemplify developments, not because I wish to claim that those individual contributions were necessarily in all respects unique. But in Naudé’s case, interest in both the medieval and the Renaissance past of medicine, attention to chronology, and emphasis on the relation of medical history to broader his-


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torical developments all indicate a shift toward a new form of disciplinary history, using tools of historical criticism and research. In fact, the production of independent, full-scale, systematic works on the history of medicine began later in the seventeenth century (the earliest example is usually considered to be Daniel Le Clerc’s Histoire de la medécine, ‹rst published in 1696, although this claim, like all such judgments, begs a number of questions).121 But the ‹fteenth- to early seventeenth-century works, even if they constitute only the prehistory of the subsequent disciplinary history of medicine, were hardly tangential to the medical culture of their own time. They provided the principal means of memorializing the past of medicine, played a role in expressing and transmitting professional identity, and exempli‹ed professional values. They also allowed and encouraged biographical and historical interests among medical authors and readers. Consequently, they have much to tell us about the historical ideas and methodology of Renaissance physicians as applied to their own discipline. Yet as the following chapters will show, many physicians looked beyond the history of medicine to broader historical themes.

par t two

Physicians, Civil History, and Antiquarianism

P R E FAC E TO PART T WO : RIVAL PHYSICIAN HISTORIANS OF THE ITALIAN WARS

T

“

he French really call you a golden river. Now [we have] your sweet book on human anatomy, and it seems witty to them[;] . . . without doubt you are the prince of all orators and physicians of our age”—thus Symphorien Champier expressed his appreciation of Alessandro Benedetti’s Anatomice, a description of human dissection notable for its classicizing vocabulary, citation of exclusively ancient sources, and rhetorical sophistication. The encomium was a response to Benedetti’s warm appreciation of the attacks on medieval Arabic medical authorities and Islam in general that pervaded Champier’s own medical and religious writings. In short, the mutual admiration of the older Venetian practitioner and the younger Lyonnais physician, expressed in an exchange of letters in 1508, rested on shared tastes and interests characteristic of humanist medicine at the turn of the sixteenth century.1 Elsewhere, Champier, who was one of the ‹rst to spread the in›uence of Ficino’s writings north of the Alps, referred to Benedetti as “complatonicus noster.”2 If these declarations of mutual esteem are to some extent misleading—Champier was as dependent on Avicenna’s Canon of Medicine as a basic medical text as were most physicians of his age and exempted its author from some of his strictures on the Arabs, while Benedetti’s humanist presentation of the Anatomice overlaid some features shared with the principal medieval treatise on dissection, the early fourteenth-century Anatomia of Mondino de’ Liuzzi3—they were no doubt heartfelt. It remains unclear whether the two knew anything of each other’s writings 137

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beyond the medical works alluded to in these letters. But Benedetti and Champier also had other characteristics in common besides their appreciation of currently fashionable intellectual trends in medicine. One was an interest in the material remains of antiquity: Champier noted the presence of Roman ruins and inscriptions in his native Lyon, whereas Benedetti was both more ambitious in his use of material evidence and more closely involved in the burgeoning culture of antiquarianism and in humanist philological controversy in Italy. In his edition of Pliny published in 1507, Benedetti appealed to—and illustrated—a mutilated inscription as “proof” of his contention that Pliny had lived in Verona.4 But the most striking parallel between Benedetti and Champier is that both combined medical practice and authorship with writing vigorous and polemical civil history—and both wrote of the Italian wars from personal experience. Yet they wrote very different kinds of history and from opposing points of view. Benedetti’s one work on civil history, the Diaria de bello Carolino, is a strongly pro-Venetian and anti-French account of the efforts of the League of Venice to drive Charles VIII of France out of Italy after the invasion of 1494.5 The work’s title and its focus on a single campaign suggest a Sallustian model, though Benedetti had no qualms about comparing himself with Livy in his preface: “This simple style of mine perhaps wakens scorn now as being dry and bloodless, but there will be those among posterity who, when they have compared various histories, will pronounce it more agreeable and rich because among the ancients Titus Livy discharged his task in this way with wondrous success.”6 (Posterity has not been so kind.) In part, the work records Benedetti’s own experiences as a medical practitioner accompanying the Venetian army and an astrologer giving astral counsel to Venetian generals.7 Benedetti’s account of this campaign was a source for later writers (principally the Milanese chronicler Bernardino Corio),8 although its conclusion, which leaves the Venetians celebrating victory in 1495 and the reader with the impression that foreign invasion of Italy had been successfully repelled, was soon overtaken by history. Champier’s own experience of the Italian wars came when he accompanied his patron and patient Antoine Duke of Lorraine to the French victories at Agnadello in 1509 and Marignano in 1515.9 More proli‹c than Benedetti, Champier was tireless in his output, producing a stream—perhaps better, a ›ood—of historical, literary, philosophical, and religious as well as medical works in both Latin and the vernacular. His historical or quasi-historical writings ranged across capsule lives of famous women of antiquity and the Bible in La nef des dames; a work on the Roman, French, and German “monarchies”; chronicles of the house of Savoy; an assemblage of material

Preface to Part 2

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about the history of the house of Lorraine; a history of Austrasia; a spirited personal account of a popular uprising in his native Lyon in 1529 during which his own house was looted; and, his best-known contribution, the ‹rst life of the famous French knight Pierre Terrail, Seigneur de Bayard (to whom he was related by marriage).10 Champier was able to produce such a large body of material in part through practices of compilation and much repetition from work to work, but his historical writings nevertheless have distinctive characteristics, the chief of which is a strongly pro-French stance. As one might expect, given the immediate political context of the Italian wars, this stance is very evident in Champier’s life of Bayard and his Le triumphe du tres Chrestien roy de France Loys XII (which contains some remarkably pointed anti-Venetian diatribe). But the same protonationalistic point of view also shaped Champier’s account of universal history—which postulated a double succession of the western Roman Empire to the French and to the Germans (and insisted that Charlemagne was entirely French and that no one but a German could think otherwise)—and his Francophile comparisons of French and Italian learning (despite his own debt to Ficino and admiration for Benedetti).11 Notwithstanding Champier’s immersion in the world of French humanism and a good deal of classical name-dropping in his pages, his historical writings often recall the literature of medieval chronicle and romance and mirror the chivalric culture still thriving among the nobility of his own day. Something of their ›avor is provided by the passage in the life of Bayard in which the author proudly recalled how he himself received an order of chivalry on the ‹eld of Marignano: “The Duke of Lorraine gave the order of chivalry to most of his gentleman, and remembering that I had dedicated to him a book called The Order of Chivalry, wanted to give me, unworthy as I was, the ‹rst such order.”12 In those of his historical writings that looked back to the more distant past, Champier included a good deal of legendary or ‹ctitious material. Yet he paid some attention to social and economic factors in his account of the Lyon uprising (though he ended up attributing it to the evils of heresy),13 and he occasionally showed enough critical sense to reserve judgment. Of the supposed writings of Berosus put forth by Annius of Viterbo, he remarked, “Some Italians and Sicilians say and believe that the said history of Berosus is fabulous on account of its great antiquity”; noted that Josephus’s report of Berosus did not correspond with Annius’s version; and concluded, “About these ancient histories we cannot speak well or con‹rm their truthfulness.”14 Standing at the beginning of the sixteenth century, Benedetti and Champier—with their similar interests, con›icting political loyalties, and dif-

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Fig. 5. Duke Antoine of Lorraine leading his troops to battle, as illustrated in Symphorien Champier’s Le recueil ou croniques des hystoires des royaulmes daustrasie (Lyon, 1510), av. This depiction of his patron and patient conveys the chivalric atmosphere of some of Champier’s historical writings and his commitment to the French cause in the Italian wars. (Courtesy of the New York Academy of Medicine Library.)

ferent methodologies—appropriately introduce the second part of this book, which will consider some salient examples of the roles, motivations, and contexts that engaged physicians in the tasks of writing civil history and studying antiquities. The following chapters examine physician historians and antiquaries later in the century in four regional settings: in chapter 4, the Milanese political and intellectual context of Girolamo Cardano’s distinctive ideas about historical method; in chapter 5, the intersection of medicine, history, natural history, and antiquarianism in papal Rome; in chapter 6, historical writing by physicians at the university and court of Habsburg Vienna; and in chapter 7, Venetian and other medical men as authors of “Eastern” histories. By examining these different themes and settings, one may hope not only to gain insight into the participation of physicians in the development of historical studies during the period but also, perhaps, to see how medical formation may have shaped some contributions to that development.

Chapter Four

MILAN: PROBLEMS OF EXEMPLARITY IN MEDICINE AND HISTORY

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ith characteristic acerbity, Girolamo Cardano of Milan expressed his sharp awareness of the problematic nature of exemplary history—the truism, from antiquity to the Renaissance and beyond, that history, magistra vitae, teaches imitation of the good and avoidance of the bad. I might often think it would be far better for histories not to be written and that reading them brings out more evil than good in people. For how does it contribute to good behavior if you read about the frivolity of the Athenians, the treachery of the Carthaginians, the cruelty of tyrants? What is good about the life and deeds of Agathocles or of Phalaris or of Dionysius [of Syracuse]? But neither do the deeds of Marius, Sulla, or Caesar contain any useful example—nothing but deceit, rapine, conspiracy, broken promises, savagery . . . and an in‹nity of things with an unhappy outcome, so that you get neither pleasure nor utility from this kind of reading. Therefore the histories of Tacitus and Meton and Diodorus Siculus and Appian and Thucydides and Machiavelli are against philosophy and sacred studies.1 Both history and medicine offered the record and example of past experience, and both taught Cardano that interpretation of example can be at best an 141

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ambiguous endeavor. He worked out his ideas on the interpretation of the past and the uses of example explicitly in treatises on civil history and moral philosophy, as well as implicitly (though sometimes also explicitly) in copious medical writings. Many other physicians wrote on historical subjects. But Cardano seems to have been among those sixteenth-century ‹gures who selfconsciously pondered issues of historical method. His ideas on the subject and the context in which they developed thus appropriately open the part of this book that addresses the involvement of medical ‹gures in civil history and antiquarian studies and that considers medical contributions to these branches of knowledge in the context of speci‹c regional and cultural settings. In Cardano’s case, his medical and historical ideas took shape not only in the general context of humanistic culture and his own wide historical reading but also in the particular civic environment created by the recent history, current political situation, and social and intellectual milieu of Milan. Cardano was an original thinker on many topics, problems of historical method among them. But because his intellectual formation depended in large part on elements diffused in the learned culture of his time and place, he is no doubt less of a limiting case for Renaissance individualism and innovation than is sometimes assumed. Physicians took ideas about the uses of history and historical example from the same general stock of concepts and sources as their contemporaries in other disciplines. Like those peers, they read ancient historians, humanist discussions of history, and encyclopedic works incorporating historical information. Also like their contemporaries, but with the added advantage of professional expertise, they drew on medical, astrological, and natural philosophical theory to reinforce their understanding of the role of astral, climatic, and biological factors in history. In these fundamental respects, Cardano was certainly not unusual, though he was probably much more widely read than most university-educated physicians. But his views on historical method appear to be the result of his own re›ection on medical and astrological experience, on extensive historical reading, and perhaps on the historical calamities that af›icted his native Milan in his lifetime. Accordingly, this chapter’s exploration of his views on example and interpretation in medicine and history does not imply a claim that those views are representative or typical of sixteenth-century physicians in general. Rather, Cardano’s views invite investigation because of his high level of awareness—and sometimes critical assessment—of the most advanced historical thought of his day. But like all of Cardano’s writings, his remarks on history and historical method are not without ambiguities and contradictions.

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In medical, philosophical, astrological, and encyclopedic writings, Cardano made copious use of examples from his own medical practice, from ancient and modern history (he cast retroactive horoscopes of such historical ‹gures as Julius II, Luther, Erasmus, and, notoriously, Christ), and from the events of his own life, repeatedly adopting a format in which a collection of examples backed up his theoretical account.2 Yet perhaps in part as a result of considering these uses of example and in part because of his experience of contemporary political turmoil, he was, as the passage quoted at the beginning of this chapter demonstrates, also among those sixteenth-century authors who cast doubt on the traditional assumption that the function of history was primarily exemplary. In his Encomium of Nero, he showed how easy it was to argue away some of the conventional judgments associated with that belief. Moreover, the same fondness for paradox and the reversal of conventional judgments spans and links his writings on general historical topics and his treatment of the history of his own discipline of medicine. In addition, Cardano developed his own version of environmental interpretation in schemes of world history that show the mark of his medical as well as his astrological ideas. Furthermore, his interpretations of history also at times embody a response—on occasion, a critical response—to the versions of and ideas about history current in his immediate and local milieu. Notwithstanding the universalizing aspects of Renaissance learned culture, personal experience, local situations, and local traditions of historical writing also helped to shape historical ideas. In Cardano’s case, his ideas about history emerged in a milieu marked by recent historical crisis—the traumatic experiences of his native Milan during the Italian wars—and productive of much historical writing.3 Investigation of his ideas on history and historical method thus also calls for inquiry into his local intellectual context and associations. These included numerous personal contacts with a group of humanistic authors who wrote on the antiquities and the calamitous recent history of Milan. Cardano’s own historical writings, however, were very different from theirs in genre and, sometimes, in method and interpretation. Thus, Cardano and his Milanese contemporaries used history differently but in ways that were connected. Together, they illustrate the interpenetration not only of medical and historical method but also of medical and civic historical culture and experience.

cardano as reader and writer of history Cardano’s list of the things that gave him pleasure opened with items appropriate for a proli‹c writer, a lover of subtlety in nature and arti‹ce, and a

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voracious reader: ‹ne writing implements, gems, and rare books. But when the physician, mathematician, astrologer, and natural philosopher went on to enumerate the types of reading he most enjoyed, he gave ‹rst place to history.4 Cardano was not exaggerating his devotion to reading history. The evidence for the breadth of his historical reading and for his practice of diligent excerpting is scattered throughout his works in the shape of a rich store of anecdotes about antiquity and the more recent past (culled from writers of every type) as well as allusions to historians from Herodotus to Commynes. Among contemporary Italian writers on history, he read both Machiavelli and Paolo Giovio.5 He also made con‹dent judgments about the best types of history and the relative merits of ancient and modern historians. One chapter of his Proxeneta (of which more is presented later in this chapter) amounts almost to a miniature ars historica. In it, he deplored the insertion of long speeches common in humanist historical writing and asserted that the prime requirement was “true and diligent narration of even the smallest things.” Among ancient writers, he thought Sallust the best (because he wrote on strictly limited topics and could therefore include much detail), Trogus and Diodorus worthless, Livy “of middling value,” and Thucydides irrelevant to modern times. Among the moderns, he attributed to Commynes “the most outstanding and perhaps the only” usefulness.6 Cardano was a writer as well as a reader of history in several different contexts. In addition to the Encomium of Nero, he left a series of short evaluations of historical ‹gures in the arts and sciences and a collection of discrepancies among ancient historians; in his De arcano aeternitatis, he developed and expounded grand theories about the cycles of human history and the life span of empires and kingdoms.7 He also paid attention to the disciplinary history of the branches of knowledge that he pursued himself. His interest in the history—no less than the practice—of the mathematical sciences emerges in his Encomium of Geometry, which, like all his historical writings, is marked by strong judgments. It includes both a fairly well-informed summary of the contributions of Greek mathematicians from Euclid to Pappas and a vigorous defense of the claim that geometry was invented in ancient Egypt: “Not even the Greeks, who impudently lie about so many things, have dared to ascribe to themselves the invention of geometry” (Nec Graeci, qui tam impudenter multa mentiuntur, Geometriae inventionem sibi ascribere ausi sunt).8 His approach to astrology was historical in a double sense: in his commentary on Ptolemy’s astrological Tetrabiblos, he set out to restore Ptolemy’s original method and purge it of later accretions; and in his collections of horoscopes,

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he included the examples of well-known ‹gures of the ancient and recent past to demonstrate retroactively the veracity of astrological interpretation.9 His level of attention to and strong opinions about both general history and the history of mathematical disciplines provide the context for his views on the history of the discipline to which he devoted most of his professional career—medicine. However, with the exception of the inclusion of Galen in his sets of accounts of ancient authors, he expressed those views entirely within standard genres of medical writing. His disquisitions on the history of medicine are found scattered through prefaces to commentaries; in other passages assessing the authenticity, transmission, or medical usefulness of particular ancient medical texts; and in his Encomium of Medicine.10 His sources for strictly medical history are equally conventional, including primarily, of course, the medical texts themselves, along with the accounts of ancient encyclopedic writers (Celsus, Pliny) and doxographic literature of various kinds. He no doubt also knew the chapters on medicine in Polydore Vergil’s widely disseminated De inventoribus rerum.11 Nevertheless, Cardano’s interpretations of medical history are in a variety of ways linked to his treatment of other historical topics, as is demonstrated by his reversal of conventional judgments, his use of general historical works as a source of information about the history of disease, his deployment of disease in schemes of world history, and the contradictory and perhaps ironic elements in his presentation of the history of medicine as a profession. Given his practice of reworking the same material in different treatises over long periods of time, I make no attempt to sort out the relative chronology of his ideas in medical as compared to other areas of history. Rather, I should like to suggest that at least in the respects just named, his understanding of general history and of the history of medicine and disease were mutually in›uential.

the formation of cardano’s historical ideas and intellectual life in milan and pavia In the formation of Cardano’s historical ideas, as in so many other areas of his life, the relative weight of different elements cannot easily be determined. His historical reading—like his medical, astrological, and philosophical learning—placed him in a pan-European world of elite culture; moreover, he successfully cultivated an international readership through foreign contacts and his choice of northern publishers. Yet he also remained very strongly rooted in the local social and cultural environment of Milan and Pavia. When he

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looked back on the history of his own life he placed the in›uence of his family and native place before that of the stars; he published books abroad but dedicated them to local patrons; and on the title pages of his works and elsewhere, he repeatedly identi‹ed himself as Milanese.12 All of this, together with Cardano’s personal connections with Milanese antiquarian and historical authors, suggests the likelihood that the immediate and local environment in which he taught and practiced for most of his career in›uenced his historical ideas. The years of Cardano’s adult career in Milan and Pavia (from the 1530s until 1562) coincided with the early years of Spanish domination. The overwhelming imperial victory at the Battle of Pavia (1525) effectively determined the ultimate outcome of the contest for control of Lombardy that had begun with the French invasions of the 1490s. Direct Spanish rule followed the death of the last duke of Milan, Francesco II Sforza, in 1535.13 But many years of intermittent warfare, successive changes of government, and the ‹nancial exactions of the ‹rst period of Spanish control were all disruptive not only of political and economic but also of intellectual and cultural life in Milan and Pavia. The formerly ›ourishing printing industries of both cities suffered drastic interruption in the 1520s and were restored only slowly.14 In the 1530s and 1540s, teaching at the University of Pavia was from time to time suspended, with teachers (Cardano among them) left unpaid.15 In the absence of a princely court after the death of Francesco II, cultural patronage in Milan came to depend on the interest of individual ecclesiastics and members of the patriciate and on the ›uctuating support of successive governors (Alfonso d’Avalos was a generous patron of some literary ‹gures, but his interests were primarily military, and his expenditures were the subject of much criticism).16 Nevertheless, by the mid-1530s, both printing and intellectual life had begun to revive and to enter a new phase. The products of Milanese presses in the 1530s to 1550s—apart from of‹cial proclamations and ordinances—give some idea of the nature of that intellectual life. Religious items, literary works, orations on public occasions, and pamphlets about current events predominate; more than half of these publications are in the vernacular. Natural philosophy and the sciences are not well represented (although academic publication in these areas resumed to some extent at Pavia).17 The relatively few authors with more than local intellectual aspirations and contacts—among them Andrea Alciato and Cardano—tended to look abroad for their publishers, either in Venice or in northern Europe.18 But in these years, Milanese authors also produced a substantial body of historical writing—not all of it printed—in a variety of genres: antiquarian

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chorography, humanist history of recent political and military events, vernacular civic chronicle, verse narrative about feats of arms, and universal history.19 Friendship and shared interests linked the authors of a number of works in the ‹rst two categories. Cardano, too, had personal ties with some members of this group. The group of writers connected in one way or another to the ‹gure of Alciato as well as by their common interest in antiquarianism and humanistic history was, of course, only a small segment of Milan’s cultural elite and only one part of Cardano’s intellectual and social milieu. His proli‹c works name a bewildering variety of patrons, patients, pupils, friends, enemies, and professional and professorial colleagues and rivals, in social and professional categories ranging across physicians, philosophers, astrologers, mathematicians, craftsmen, ecclesiastics, patricians, and Spanish of‹cials. Yet it is far from easy to gauge the real nature of his personal and professional associations in Milan and Pavia. Many aspects of his milieu remain unclear— notably his relation to the various religious currents present in both cities. Much of the available information comes only from his own statements; in the few instances in which it is possible to match his remarks with another account, the result is sometimes disconcerting. For example, when the poet and dramatist Luca Contile founded (or possibly reestablished) the Pavia academy of the Af‹dati in 1562, he wrote with evident pride and pleasure to Francesco Patrizi that its members included some of the “‹rst men of letters in Italy,” among them Cardano and two of his friends, the philosopher Branda Porro and Lucillo Maggi; but Cardano remembered the invitation to join the academy as literally a death trap, set up as part of a plot to murder him by his enemies in the faculty of medicine.20 Nevertheless, Cardano’s connections with the group of Milanese historical and antiquarian writers described in the following paragraphs emerge with some clarity from a number of sources. Milanese antiquarianism largely owed its inspiration to Alciato. Although best remembered today for his enormously in›uential collection of emblems and his humanistic legal writings, Alciato also devoted himself to history and antiquarianism. Early in his career, in addition to producing one of the ‹rst commentaries on Tacitus, he collected Milanese inscriptions and wrote on the early history of Milan. Although the latter two works remained unpublished until the twentieth and the seventeenth centuries, respectively, they were known to and used by his friends and disciples.21 One who referred to them was the cleric (and later inquisitor) and antiquarian Bonaventura Castiglione, author of a chorographic work in which he both purported to iden-

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tify the sites and monuments of the ancient Gauls in Lombardy and recorded his reading of the texts of numerous inscriptions. Castiglione, who was a member of a well-known Milanese noble family, seems to have paid particular attention to sites associated with such families, including Olona, the Castiglione family seat.22 Castiglione was also the author of a set of vernacular lives of the ‹rst eleven bishops of Milan, which he ‹lled with accounts of local Christian antiquities and laments over the deterioration and damage of recent times. Among his dislikes were novelties introduced by new religious orders and liturgical innovations made at the expense of the ancient Ambrosian liturgy; but he especially denounced the destruction or mutilation of churches, whether by imperial Lutheran troops who were “worse than the [French and Venetian] enemy” during the siege of 1526, through inappropriate modernization by one of the new religious orders, or in the course of Governor Ferrante Gonzaga’s building projects.23 Another member of the Alciato circle was the slightly younger Gaudenzio Merula, whose eclectic interests ranged from poetry to natural philosophy and from cosmography to history and antiquities.24 His De Gallorum Cisalpinorum antiquitate, ac origine, published in Lyon in 1538, also provides chorographic information, records some inscriptions, and devotes attention to noble families of Lombardy, whose origins Merula traced to an appropriately remote antiquity (as he also did in a separate work on “famous and extremely ancient Italian families,” in which he claimed that one Milanese family was descended from the Argonauts).25 Castiglione’s Gallorum Insubrum antiquae sedes is as ‹lled with acknowledgments to Merula as it is to Alciato.26 In turn, Merula contributed a dedicatory poem to Castiglione’s work and framed his own De Gallorum Cisalpinorum antiquitate as a dialogue in which the participants included Castiglione (in whose mouth Merula placed a vigorous attack on the reliability of Annius of Viterbo); the antiquarian Benedetto Giovio, brother of the historian Paolo; and several young “followers of Ciceronian elegance” who had come to Pavia to study with Alciato.27 In the next generation, the humanist, schoolmaster, and professor of rhetoric Francesco Ciceri, yet another follower of Alciato as antiquarian, prepared a supplement (provided with careful drawings) to Alciato’s collection of local inscriptions and monuments.28 Several of the men who wrote on Milan’s recent past held of‹cial positions under Francesco II Sforza and, in some cases, subsequently under the Spanish. Their works are humanist histories in the sense of being narratives of political and military events, interspersed with speeches and occasional passages of analysis.29 Galeazzo Capra, or Capella, the most successful of these

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authors in terms of both distribution and in›uence, was one of Francesco Sforza’s secretaries and dedicated his work to his employer. In the preface to Sforza, Capella proclaimed his determination to be unaffected by the political and social hazards of writing a truthful history of local affairs in one’s own time.30 Yet by titling the second edition of his work Commentarii . . . de rebus gestis pro restitutione Francisci II Mediolani Ducis, he was following a tradition of humanist historiography and Sforza propaganda dating back to the earlier Sforza court, as well as expressing a debt to Caesar. Capella’s history, which covers the events of 1521–30, was ‹rst published in Milan in 1531. It later appeared in seven sixteenth- and two seventeenth-century editions and was translated into Spanish, Italian, and German; it was also among the sources used by Guicciardini.31 The author continued to revise and add to it until shortly before his own premature death (the result of an encounter with a runaway horse). In 1536, foreseeing renewed warfare, he tried to arrange for a friend to keep safely outside Milan the printed copy on which he had marked his last set of revisions, with an eye to holding it for publication until the previous edition was exhausted.32 Capella, too, moved in the same circle as the antiquaries. He was apparently connected with Alciato only in an of‹cial capacity. But in good humanist fashion, he sent his history to Benedetto Giovio, begging him to correct its expression and Latinity, and received from him a friendly, if slightly condescending, letter of approval. Gaudenzio Merula, who credited the Capella family with descent from the ‹fth-century author Martianus Capella, recorded Galeazzo Capella’s death in his own work and edited a posthumous edition of Capella’s Commentarii.33 Two other of‹cials in the service of Francesco II Sforza who produced contemporary histories were Scipione Vegio and Giovanni Battista Speziano. Vegio, who was both a ducal physician and a member of the Milanese Senate, wrote of the period from the accession of Francis I of France in 1515 to 1521 and also compiled a set of notes about the events of 1522 and 1523. In the preface to the latter work, this physician—unusually—apparently felt a need to defend his role as a historian, remarking, “But I know you will say it is not appropriate for a philosopher to write history,” and going on to cite in his justi‹cation examples of ancient philosopher-historians.34 It seems unlikely that he did not know of at least one modern example, namely, Alessandro Benedetti, whose Diaria de bello Carolino was published by Aldus in 1496. The Venetian physician’s account of the war between the invading forces of Charles VIII and a coalition that included Milan and Venice seems a paradigmatic example of, in Vegio’s terms, a philosopher writing history; moreover, as noted earlier, a Milanese historian of the previous generation, Bernardino Corio,

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had already borrowed from it extensively.35 But even if Vegio were not avoiding all modern citations on principle, he may have decided against citing Benedetti in particular, either because of his somewhat unfavorable depiction of Lodovico Sforza—which had not deterred Corio—or because Venice had more recently been an enemy of Milan. Vegio’s work was continued to 1525 by Gaudenzio Merula, who, unlike Vegio, followed events from the French perspective.36 Merula was subsequently obliged to defend himself against critics who complained of his mistakes and compared him unfavorably to Livy, Sallust, and Tacitus. He did so with energy, pointing out that Livy had never had to deal with such events as Charles V’s capture of Tunis or the sack of Rome by imperial troops, nor had Tacitus had to deal with the arrival of hordes of Swiss troops in the suburbs of Milan.37 Giovanni Battista Speziano, ducal councillor and captain of justice, later also played a leading part in the government of Milan under the Spanish. He had a reputation for learning in many ‹elds, among them philosophy, mathematics, music, astrology, and medicine. For his un‹nished historical account, he was able to draw on a great deal of inside military and political information. For example, his vivid narrative of the siege of Francesco II in the Castello Sforzesco in 1526 provides precise details of the numbers and status of the civilian and military occupants of the castle. Speziano, too, was associated with the circle of antiquaries, for Bonaventura Castiglione addressed to him an essay on the location of a town mentioned by Caesar.38 Much more ambitious in scope than the historical works of Vegio, Merula, and Speziano (all of which remained unpublished until the nineteenth century) was the History of Milan by the jurist Bernardino Arluno, completed in 1534. The ‹rst section of this three-part work traced the history of Milan from its origins to the French invasion and was dedicated to Francesco II Sforza; the second, titled De bello Veneto, carried the story from 1500 to 1516; the third, dedicated to Charles V, covered the events of 1516–25. Arluno’s own stance was, perhaps deliberately, ambiguous. He evenhandedly celebrated all the rulers of Milan—native, French, and Spanish. In addition to his dedication to Francesco II Sforza, his dedication to Charles V, and a separate panegyric to the Spanish general Antonio de Leyva, he also wrote, earlier in his career, panegyrics to both Louis XII and Francis I of France. Yet his panegyrics, as well as his history, emphasize the sufferings caused by war, contain references to disorder under foreign rule, and plead for leniency for the Milanese people.39 Although Arluno was himself a jurist, he came from a family with a strong commitment to medicine: his father and four brothers were all physicians. When one of his brothers, Giovanni Francesco,

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attempted to get Bernardino’s history published posthumously, he invoked the aid of Marcantonio Maioragio, Milan’s leading humanist and teacher of rhetoric, and of Francesco Ciceri. Maioragio, yet another of the students, admirers, and correspondents of Alciato, contributed a preface to Arluno’s work that is chie›y an encomium to history as a storehouse of examples for teaching prudence.40 In it, Maioragio, who had recently published a work critical of Cicero as a philosopher, claimed that things useful for private and public life were much better learned from history than from the precepts of philosophers. Only history, he said, taught what had been done honestly and what wickedly, what was to be sought out and what ›ed from.41 For this purpose, Maioragio thought, domestic history was more useful than foreign, since people naturally desired to know more about their own ancestors than about other countries. He went on pointedly to praise historians (presumably including Arluno and perhaps excluding Capella) who undertook the task of writing the history of their own country spontaneously, without any form of of‹cial sanction or payment. In one of his principal works, a commentary on Cicero’s Orator, Maioragio, who himself wrote one short “epistle” on contemporary Milanese history, also praised the usefulness of history as a storehouse of examples for orators.42 Nevertheless, in another context, he was capable of being quite dismissive of the modern relevance of ancient example. His short antiquarian work on the ancient Roman Senate might seem to imply a ›attering parallel between the ancient institution and the Milanese Senate. This body, drawn from the Milanese patriciate, had been created by Louis XII at the time of the French conquest, to replace two former ducal councils; under Spanish rule, it retained some responsibilities, chie›y judicial. But Maioragio’s conclusion was that no comparison between the ancient Roman Senate and the Milanese Senate was truly valid, because of the superiority of the Milanese institution on the grounds of its “much purer faith, religion, holiness.”43 In 1548, at the time when Giovanni Francesco Arluno was trying to ‹nd a publisher for his brother’s history, Maioragio himself was trying to ‹nd someone to print his Reprehensiones, a response to Mario Nizzoli’s objections to his attack on Cicero. Both relied on Ciceri—who was then living in Maioragio’s house and serving as his assistant and secretary—to act as intermediary. Ciceri, who originally came from Lugano, had close contacts with Oporinus in Basel and tried to persuade him to publish the two works. Oporinus was extremely hesitant in both cases, because of the personal attack on Nizzoli in Maioragio’s Reprehensiones and because of Arluno’s politically injudicious remarks about the rapacious behavior of the Swiss (in a work that, as

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Oporinus remarked, would have to pass censors in Basel) and of Gian Giacomo Medici. The latter, an imperialist general in the wars of the 1520s who fought chie›y in his own interests, belonged to an increasingly powerful family (his brother became Pope Pius IV in 1559). In the end, the Reprehensiones appeared with a ‹ctitious place of publication and no publisher’s name, but Oporinus’s caution, the death of Giovanni Francesco Arluno, and consequent lack of funds to complete the project ensured that Bernardino Arluno’s history remained unpublished.44 Nevertheless, its survival in several manuscripts suggests that it enjoyed some circulation in mid-sixteenth-century Milanese humanist and historical circles. One of the ‹rst of the writers named above with whom Cardano made contact after his return to Milan in the mid-1530s may have been Galeazzo Capella (d. 1537). In 1543, he published Capella’s geniture with an accompanying narrative describing in detail the cause of his death and characterizing De bello Mediolanensi as erudite and elegant.45 As this example suggests, some of Cardano’s connections with intellectual circles outside medicine probably began with contacts made in the course of medical or astrological practice. Another important connection was with Andrea Alciato. Cardano published Alciato’s geniture in 1543 but dated his personal friendship with him from the time when both of them were teaching at Pavia—that is, the brief period between 1546 and 1550 (the year of Alciato’s death). Cardano later remembered their relation as one of mutual admiration, recording with pride Alciato’s appreciation of his work, especially De consolatione.46 Before returning to Italy, Alciato had spent many years in France and had acquired widespread fame and numerous contacts in northern Europe. It is conceivable that his example may have played a part in encouraging Cardano to look beyond Italy for his readers.47 Cardano accompanied Alciato’s geniture with a narrative in which he praised his Latinity and proli‹c authorship and judged the content of his epistles and orations superior to those of Erasmus. Yet their views were not in complete harmony, as Alciato was a strong critic of occult sciences in general and of astrology in particular. Consequently, Cardano expressed his objection to the critique of astrology in two of Alciato’s emblems (a critique echoed in antiastrological remarks in the histories of both Vegio and Merula).48 Cardano, who occasionally advanced a tentative and unfounded claim that his own family had a connection with the noble Castiglione lineage, was also on good terms with the antiquarian Bonaventura Castiglione. Despite his clerical rigor, Castiglione shared Cardano’s interest in astrology—in an ecclesiastical context, at any rate—and apparently either cast or collected horo-

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scopes of churchmen. Some time before 1547, he gave Cardano the genitures of four cardinals “from his book,” which Cardano published along with Castiglione’s own.49 He also knew at least some of Merula’s work; Merula, in turn, was suf‹ciently familiar with Cardano to cast him as one of the speakers in a little dialogue on alchemy inserted into his encyclopedic work on natural philosophy, the Memorabilia.50 Giovanni Battista Speziano, whose erudition Cardano admired, was an important link in his chain of patronage; Cardano’s patient and patron Francesco Sfondrati introduced him to Speziano, who made him known to Alfonso d’Avalos. Cardano’s feeling for Speziano apparently extended beyond the grave; two years after Speziano’s death, he recorded a dream in which Speziano appeared and answered a question about the afterlife with the declaration “Nothing remains.”51 It also seems likely that Cardano knew Arluno’s work, with which he could have become familiar through his fellow physician Giovanni Francesco Arluno, who tried to arrange for its publication via Maioragio and Ciceri, and through his own association with both of the latter at the time of Giovanni Francesco’s endeavor. Cardano’s relationship with Maioragio and Ciceri apparently began when Maioragio was his student (presumably of mathematics); the much younger Ciceri had been the pupil of a pupil. Maioragio was a patient as well as a friend and former pupil: Cardano wrote a consilium for him, claimed to have saved his life “two or three times,” and was hurt not to have been summoned in his last illness.52 As already noted, Maioragio’s interests extended to philosophy as well as to poetry, rhetoric, eloquence, history, and antiquities. Cardano was not his only contact in medical circles, for he dedicated his commentary on Cicero’s Orator to Giovanni Ambrogio Cavenago, proto‹sico of Milan. Because Maioragio died early, most of his works were published posthumously, but he allowed Cardano to read many of them in manuscript.53 Maioragio came to prominence in the 1540s, when he founded the Milan academy of the Trasformati and threw himself into the controversy over Ciceronianism. After having ‹rst attacked a critic of some aspects of Cicero’s rhetoric and philosophy, he subsequently, as already noted, came to criticize Cicero as a philosopher. His attack on Cicero took the form of a dialogue titled Antiparadoxon, dedicated to Alciato, in which six interlocutors each demolish one of Cicero’s Stoic paradoxes. Maioragio allotted one of these roles to Cardano, whom he described as an outstanding physician and philosopher, an extremely erudite polymath, and one of his closest friends; he presented him as repudiating the paradox “All stupid people are mad.”54 The next year, Cardano published the younger man’s geniture with an accompa-

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nying narrative that praised his acute ingenium, memory, reasoning powers, and great erudition in Latin and Greek and characterized him as “certainly a marvelous man.”55 But for all these expressions of admiration, Cardano’s relation with Maioragio, like so many of his associations, may also have included elements of tension. In hindsight, he attributed the quarrel between Nizzoli and Maioragio to vanity and a struggle for reputation (though possibly mostly on Nizzoli’s part); and Maioragio indignantly recorded a conversation in which, in response to his contention (based on learned antiquarian reading) that the ancient lyre and cithara were the same instrument, Cardano burst out laughing and told him to go and look at street musicians if he did not know the difference between an instrument played with a plectrum and one played with the ‹ngers.56 Cardano’s association with Ciceri was also marked by both closeness and tension. Cardano, who was perfectly well aware that his own Latinity left something to be desired, clearly admired the humanist Latin literary skills that were the stock-in-trade of Maioragio and Ciceri.57 He tried to get Maioragio to teach his cherished elder son. When Maioragio declined, Cardano sent the youth to school with Ciceri. This arrangement began with many protestations of friendship and, on Ciceri’s side, of appreciation of the honor, but it rapidly dissolved under an unfortunate disagreement over school fees. Nevertheless, a few years later, Cardano came back to Ciceri, asking for and receiving help to revise the Latin of De subtilitate.58 Scattered passages in Cardano’s own writings reveal his reading of works of the Milanese antiquaries and historians. For example, in his commentary on the Hippocratic Airs Waters Places, his account of Gallarate (a small town near Milan where Cardano spent some time in medical practice) and of neighboring places clearly draws on Bonaventura Castiglione’s antiquarian chorography.59 Capella’s work, possibly along with that of Arluno, is a likely source of information for occasional passages about the recent history of Milan incorporated into Cardano’s philosophical treatises and into the Encomium of Nero.60 Cardano’s appreciation of the works on recent Milanese history is perhaps re›ected in the chapter on history in his Proxeneta. There he expressed his admiration for Sallust, author of monographs on individual campaigns, and recommended his readers not to read histories covering “a long time and many kingdoms,” on the grounds that breadth of scope invariably entailed diminished accuracy. He may also have had the Milanese histories in mind when he advised readers to choose—given the great lack of good histories—“a few of our own time that give an accurate account of small kingdoms.” He explained, “Just like that good painter who painted one perfect

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beauty from [the best features of] many women, we will thus construct for ourselves from them examples for the conduct of life and the avoidance of dangers and betrayals.”61 These remarks may seem rather tempered praise, but they must be read in the light of his acute consciousness of the dif‹culty of writing good history. It is extremely dif‹cult to write history. . . . For if the historian describes trivia, he will produce a ridiculous work and bore his readers; but if he relates only great things, or even those of moderate importance, he is forced to omit the things that are most useful for the conduct of life and the instruction of the reader, so that from reading you learn nothing. Indeed all great things and things of moderate importance take their origin from very small things: but those hidden causes, treacheries, solicitations, and secret meetings, the corruption of ministers, favorites, advisers, and generals, the ancient enmities, hatreds, jealousies, disparagements, and vain hopes from which all things depend can scarcely be known—and those who know them do not write history.62 On occasion, Cardano’s skepticism about history and historians went even further. When he denounced an unnamed contemporary historian of international affairs for venality and mendacity, he pointed out that in a hundred years’ time, everyone would accept his account as true, and he went on to add that it was equally possible that the revered Greek historians might have falsi‹ed the truth for venal motives.63 In even more sweeping remarks in the Encomium of Nero, in which his modern target was clearly Paolo Giovio (as was probably also the case in the passage just alluded to), he asserted, continuing the diatribe excerpted at the beginning of this chapter: “But much worse than these are Herodotus and [the historians] of our own time, who besides the usual vices are full of lies and ›attery and false accusations. Who does not know how great were the virtues of the Spanish general Antonio de Leyva, as he alone, or with very few others, can be called an outstanding general of our time. And yet a very wicked historian—or rather writer of fables—preferred to corrupt history totally because he was not given money.”64

exemplarity and paradox Despite his appreciation of the problematic nature of claims for exemplary history, Cardano, as already noted, enjoyed reading history and, far from

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avoiding appeals to example, ‹lled his own writings with examples and particulars of all kinds. In philosophical works, he made constant use of historical examples drawn from a wide variety of ancient, medieval, and modern sources and the history of many different peoples and regions—just as in medical works (and in astrological works and in his treatise on dreams), he made frequent reference to individual cases and his own experience. Moreover, like the colleagues of Paré in the preface to part 1 of this book, he bridged the two categories of medical and historical example by drawing examples of physiological rarities from general histories as well as medical experience. For example, De rerum varietate includes information about giants in Scotland taken from the Scottish chronicler Hector Boece as well as an account of a girl whose remarkable ›ow of urine had been pronounced on by Giovanni Marliani, the leading ‹gure of a previous generation of Milanese physicians (Cardano had ‹rst heard the latter story from his father but had not altogether credited it—“non satis ‹debam”—until he subsequently found the historia recorded in writing).65 Nevertheless, from a theoretical standpoint, he seems to have regarded history as exemplary chie›y in a negative sense: even when he repeated the conventional wisdom that history taught prudence, he gave more weight to the idea that knowledge of historic suffering could teach one to bear one’s own troubles patiently.66 More important, as his previously quoted remark about constructing examples “for ourselves” reveals, he also perceived that the exemplary lessons—and heroes and villains—of history changed according to the needs of the moment and the perspective of the reader. It may not be far-fetched to suppose that such an attitude was fostered by the recent Milanese experiences of the necessity of adapting to the changing fortunes of war and international diplomacy. As historians have noted, the Milanese patriciate—including several of Cardano’s patrons—sought with some success to retain its position throughout successive changes of government.67 In his time, Cardano was unusual, but not unique, in beginning to question and rework the concept of exemplary history. Medieval writers of history from Bede to Otto of Freising had routinely combined a providential view of the course of history as a whole with assertions about history’s exemplary moral value in teaching imitation of the good and avoidance of the bad. Christian providentialism, which long continued to provide a framework for some historical writing, enjoyed renewed life in the latter part of the sixteenth century, especially—though by no means exclusively—in the hands of ecclesiastical historians. Yet the fuller and more attentive reading of ancient historians by ‹fteenth-century humanists and their appreciation of Cicero’s for-

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mulations about history secularized, as well as renewed and enlarged, the concept of history as a storehouse of examples.68 As Bruni and many others before and after him claimed, knowledge of history was useful because its examples taught prudence and wisdom in the conduct of human affairs, both public and private.69 Nevertheless, in a number of instances, as several recent scholars have shown, humanists were aware of the problematic nature of the claim that history, especially ancient history, was exemplary for civic and personal life. The improved historical knowledge of classical antiquity that helped to make evident the remoteness and particularity of the ancient world could also cast doubt on the relevance and modern applicability of historical examples. At the same time, some writers began to evaluate source material more critically. Thus, by the early sixteenth century, some writers were using examples from ancient history in a notably ambiguous way, as is often the case with Machiavelli. Guicciardini’s thoughtful awareness of the dif‹culty of drawing useful lessons from history is fully apparent in his Considerazioni on Machiavelli’s Discorsi and in his Ricordi (both the Considerazioni and the Ricordi were ‹rst published many years after the author’s death). In the Considerazioni, he repeatedly questioned the validity of the conclusions Machiavelli drew from ancient history; in the Ricordi, he straightforwardly dismissed the usefulness of ancient example: “How greatly those people deceive themselves who constantly cite the example of the Romans! One would have to have a city established like theirs and govern it like theirs, but the disproportion is as great as if one were to claim that a donkey could run a race like a horse.”70 As for Cardano, in both medical and astrological works, as well as in a famous treatise on dreams, it was his repeated practice to append collections of cases and examples to expositions of theory. He shared the fascination with particulars and experience common to many of the medical practitioners of his age, but he was also well aware that relating experience to theory in any of the ‹elds named usually required an arbitrary exercise of selectivity and personal judgment on the part of the interpreter.71 In his case, a clear interest in these issues in medicine and astrology seems very likely to have contributed to an ambivalent attitude toward the exemplary function of history. His consciousness of the fragility of exemplary history appears very fully in his explorations of the basis of conventional historical judgments. The Encomium of Nero can be read in various ways.72 Cardano was a lover of paradox, even though cast by Maioragio, perhaps ironically, as a demolisher of paradoxes.73 Since, elsewhere in his works, he several times repeated the conventional sixteenth-century judgment that Nero was a monster of villainy, one

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way of reading the Encomium is as a Lucianic satire.74 Cardano, who also wrote an encomium podagrae, was certainly well aware of the genre. In his early Encomium geometriae, he named all three varieties of mock encomium on the Lucianic model—that is, the praises of vice, disease or dis‹gurement, and animals—as well as the genre’s most famous modern practitioner: “Laudavit Erasmus stultitiam, Synesius Cyrenaicus calvitiem, muscam Lucianus.”75 But perhaps the most truly paradoxical aspect of the Encomium of Nero was that Cardano used the genre of the encomium as a vehicle for asking questions about the relation of history and truth, thereby undermining the distinction—carefully maintained by Bruni, Giovio, and other humanists— between history (supposedly truthful by de‹nition) and encomium, or laudatio. As Alfonso Ingegno has noted, central elements in Cardano’s Encomium of Nero are a critique of Tacitus and Suetonius (the two principal sources for Nero’s reign and character) and of the insistence on the arbitrariness, absurdity, and relativity of human judgment.76 Cardano claimed that the Tacitean account of Nero (together with that of Suetonius) was motivated by the author’s political associations and agenda. Furthermore, a comparison of Nero’s conduct with that of other rulers, ancient and modern, revealed him as at least no worse than many others who were not held up as historic examples of tyranny. The real purpose of the piece may have been an attack on the wars, governments, and aristocratic factions of Cardano’s own age. But however the treatise is interpreted, its most salient feature is surely the reversal of conventional judgment—not only of Nero, but also of Tacitus. In Cardano’s lifetime, Tacitus was just beginning to replace Livy as the most esteemed Roman historian and guide to prudent life. Although the editio princeps of most of Tacitus’s works appeared in 1470, it was not until the sixteenth century that he began to be considered more important than Livy, a shift usually attributed in general terms to the changing European political scene and the progress of absolutism. As Guicciardini—for all his mistrust of the usefulness of Roman example—explained: “Cornelius Tacitus teaches very well people who live under tyrants how to behave, just as he teaches tyrants how to establish tyranny.”77 Interest in Tacitus reached its height only in the later sixteenth century, especially after the publication in 1574 of Justus Lipsius’s in›uential edition.78 But the growing interest in the earlier part of the century owed much to the edition and commentary by Alciato, published in Milan in 1517. Alciato’s edition was accompanied by an encomium to history in which, after denouncing astrology and celebrating the exemplary value of history, he proclaimed the superiority of Tacitus to a series of ancient historians including Livy.79 In contrast, Cardano reduced Tacitus to “a priest

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of idols and a man of the highest ambition and improbity, if you want to put together his life from his own words,” and “a most ambitious man, attached to the faction of the optimati.” Cardano made his opinion of the optimati— wealthy and aristocratic opponents of imperial power—clear in a passage explicitly inviting comparisons with the Italian states in general and Milan in particular: “If things are done unjustly and favor always goes to the more powerful people, things will soon end up in tyranny and the kingdom or republic will fall. . . . Contemporary Italy, Naples, Milan, Turin . . . , all of which changed their rulers in our own time, demonstrate how weak such kingdoms that favor the more powerful people are.”80 Cardano’s evaluation of Tacitus thus involved yet another reversal, this time of Alciato. Still another reversal perhaps appears in his characterization of the Roman Senate, which may, like Maioragio’s, imply a comparison with the Milanese Senate—though this time with hostile, rather than complimentary, intent.81 As the most recent editor of the Encomium of Nero points out, Cardano blamed some Milanese senators for the execution of his son, which had taken place not long before the publication of the work.82 Cardano may have attempted to bring about one other reversal of conventional historical judgment, this time relating to the recent history of Milan (and possibly speci‹cally in response to Arluno). In a collection of twelve genitures that he published in 1554, he included that of Gian Giacomo Medici. In the accompanying narrative, he admitted that Medici had initially been a robber baron, but he pointed out that Medici had then fought strenuously and effectively on behalf of Charles V. He added—using arguments similar to those of the Encomium of Nero, but with an even more pointed example— that no one, including the ‹rst Francesco Sforza, had ever risen from private life to control of a principality without betraying his patria and performing some wicked acts. Moreover, Cardano maintained that Medici was virtuous and pious in private life and compelled by necessity to act as he did.83 Only a decade earlier, Cardano had published an even more laudatory geniture of Gian Giacomo Trivulzio, the Milanese general who fought for the French in the wars at the turn of the century; in it, he referred to Trivulzio as “the great glory of our country.”84 Cardano may have shifted his perspective in the interim and doubtless had prudential reasons for his account of Medici, who was still alive, was the brother of a cardinal (soon to become pope) and of a former patient, and was a member of a powerful family with which Cardano retained valuable connections.85 But it seems likely that his real opinion of both men was expressed in a remark not published in his lifetime: “Someone may say that Gian Giacomo Trivulzio and Gian Giacomo Medici were dash-

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ing and perhaps rare generals, but both were more mad for power than for honor; one let the French into the city, the other considered the citizens his enemies, so that we might boldly declare that the same person cannot be a good general and a good citizen.”86 Cardano’s treatments of major ‹gures in the history of medicine also involve reversals—praising or excusing what was customarily blamed, while blaming what was customarily praised. The most obvious, but also the most ambiguous, case is his handling of Galen. Writing in an age when Galen was the dominant authority in medicine and when the full and accurate recovery of Galen’s teaching still counted as a salient recent achievement, Cardano frequently presented himself as Galen’s critic on various counts, but especially as an interpreter of Hippocrates. At the same time, Cardano’s overall understanding of the principles of physiology and therapy and his medical scholarship—indeed his entire medical outlook—remained profoundly Galenist. Furthermore, Galen was an announced model for Cardano’s accounts of his own cures and his autobibliographies, as well as, implicitly, for his ambitious program of Hippocratic commentary.87 A general evaluation of Galen appears in Cardano’s Paralipomena 15 and 16, devoted respectively to the “lives and books of famous men” and the “judgment of men of antiquity.” In the ‹rst of these sections, Galen receives relatively neutral treatment, apart from being placed low in what is evidently an order of preference (somewhat similar to the well-known passage evaluating ancient authors near the end of De subtilitate 16). He is described as next in authority to Cicero from the number of his books but as inferior to Cicero “in perfectione.” Nevertheless, Cardano notes that Galen wrote many excellent works and was a restorer of medicine.88 Paralipomena 16, however, is speci‹cally devoted to the issue of the ambiguous and varying nature of historical reputation. In it, Cardano analyzed the careers and achievements of a curious collection of individuals: a rhetorician and two scienti‹c writers from classical antiquity—namely, Cicero, Galen, and Theophrastus; three poets, two ancient and one modern—Homer, Virgil, and Ariosto (leading to the conclusion that Ariosto was in some respects greatly to be preferred to Virgil);89 and three twelfth-century ‹gures—Peter Lombard, Petrus Comestor, and Gratian, whom Cardano took to be brothers.90 The entire discussion is framed in such a way as to emphasize the contingency of fame on historical context and the complexity and ambivalence of the character and achievements of famous individuals. The opening words read: “I have seen that many people were justly ambiguous in their judgment of famous men, whether these were celebrated for arms

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or for letters.”91 Cardano went on to explain that people who were puzzled by apparent inconsistencies in the character and conduct of famous men had failed to distinguish between skill and wisdom. In fact, he thought, men achieved fame for one of three different reasons: exceptional ability (peritia) in an activity valued in the society in which they lived, possession of great power, or outstanding piety. As examples of specialties for which appreciation was culturally determined, he offered oratory (valued in cities where the many ruled, as in ancient Rome and Athens) and knowledge of laws (esteemed in monarchies). Other forms of expertise were generally prized among all peoples: ‹rst and foremost was military skill, appreciated at all times everywhere, followed, in order of preference, by medicine, painting and sculpture, and architecture. Cardano’s passage leads up to the declaration that famous men were of three kinds: those with exceptional ability in one area, the lucky, and the wise—although in any particular individual, these categories could be combined or subdivided in various ways and could change over time. Hence, his ‹rst example, Cicero, had a combination of good and bad qualities and experienced varying good and bad fortune. One of Cicero’s bad qualities in Cardano’s eyes, incidentally, was his devotion to his “stupid daughter” (stulta ‹lia).92 The concluding assessment of the medieval authors reemphasizes yet further the impact of historical contingency on reputation. Although Cardano expressed the standard humanist judgment that men who lived in a barbarous age could not be eloquent, his remarks had a critical and relativist thrust not characteristic of such comments. According to Cardano, the writings of Petrus Comestor were embellished by the authority of the church fathers, the Lombard treated noble subject matter in a well-organized way, and Gratian displayed patience and good judgment. But their useful works and those of later scholastic philosophers and theologians (he named Thomas Aquinas, Scotus, and Ockham) had become undervalued because they did not write in the style favored “in our age when the study of elegant expression ›ourishes” (Nostra aetate cum ›oreant studia polite loquendi . . .). As a result, writes Cardano, “we laugh at our ancestors; they if they could see us would weep at our calamities” (Ridemus maiores nostros, illi si nos viderent, de›erent calamitates nostras).93 Thus, according to Cardano, famous historical personages are a complex and shifting mix of good and bad qualities, and historical reputations change with changing intellectual fashions. The effect of arguments of this kind is evidently not only to reverse conventional judgments but also to bring into doubt the very idea of exemplary history. Cardano’s evaluation of Galen occupies fully one-third of his entire sec-

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tion on “judging the lives of men of antiquity” and may indeed have been the main reason for the composition of the piece. No brief summary can do full justice to the ›avor of this diatribe. Cardano claims that Galen had more luck than erudition; that his vices were more numerous than his virtues and that his words were more numerous than his deeds; that it was indeed fortunate that many of his writings had perished and that it would have been better for the development of medicine and for Galen’s reputation if they had all done so. Cardano argued that Galen followed Plato’s errors in natural philosophy, rather than the solid doctrine of Aristotle and Theophrastus; that he boasted of his knowledge of geometry, astrology, and arithmetic, but to anyone who really knew those disciplines, it was clear he did not even grasp their rudiments. As for Galen’s knowledge of anatomy, Cardano judged it much inferior to that of the earlier anatomists whose written works were lost. Cardano observed that Galen made a habit of harshly denouncing all other medical authors, whether predecessors or contemporaries, except Hippocrates, and that his praise of Hippocrates was insincere: Galen commented on the Hippocratic works simply to discourage people from reading them, and he always twisted Hippocrates’ words for the worse. Cardano also remarked that Galen, driven by ambition to write a vast number of books, had only three or four friends to dedicate them to.94 Much about this account suggests that it was constructed as a rhetorical exercise in assigning blame, just as the (much longer) Encomium of Nero can be viewed as a rhetorical exercise in assigning praise. In reality, Cardano neither excluded the possibility of ancient exemplary models of medical conduct (since he clearly regarded Hippocrates as an exemplary physician and assimilated his own medicine to that of Hippocrates) nor invariably rejected Galen as a model (since, as noted earlier, he overtly modeled himself on Galen in some respects). But also like the Encomium of Nero, there is more to the iudicium of Galen than ‹rst meets the eye. With the exception of the passage on anatomy, Cardano did not direct blame at any speci‹c aspect of Galen’s medical teaching or practice. Rather, he attacked the Greek physician’s moral character and philosophical views. As was noted in the last chapter, between 1530 and 1570, a series of authors produced short biographies of Galen that, for the ‹rst time, were based on information drawn from the full range of Galen’s works and thus supplied by Galen himself. In line with the general development of medical moralizing in that period—also evident in anatomical writing, for example—these writers laid much emphasis on Galen as model physician, an exemplar of medical morality.95 Cardano’s description (which appears to have been written in 1570)96 does exactly the contrary, perhaps even

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intentionally so. It shows that statements drawn from Galen’s own works can just as easily be used to portray a thoroughly despicable character as a model of medical morality. Taken in the context of the recent outpourings of praise of Galen the model physician, Cardano’s iudicium not only reverses a conventional judgment but reveals the fragility of its evidential basis. The perceptions, techniques, and range of reading that informed Cardano’s evaluations of Nero and Galen are part of the broader historical movement of his age and, at least in some respects, call to mind comparisons with Guicciardini. At the same time, it also seems possible that Cardano’s heightened awareness of the insecurity of all conventional historical judgments and examples may have been stimulated by or even derived from contemporary critiques of speci‹c aspects of ancient medical science. In this context, it is by no means irrelevant that Cardano was both an admirer and a critic of Vesalius.

world history and medical theory Cardano’s astrological and medical learning alike encouraged him to read all of human history—including the history of disease—in environmental terms, as profoundly embedded in the nature of the cosmos. As an astrologer, he shared the interest in astrological and numerological history widespread among late medieval and Renaissance intellectuals.97 As a Hippocratic physician and commentator on Airs Waters Places, he was profoundly familiar with that key text (along with Ptolemy’s Tetrabiblos) in the long history of theories of environmental in›uence on human development.98 But in this area as in so many others, he gave characteristically personal expression to ideas that essentially derived from long-standing tradition. In De arcano aeternitatis, he asserted that cyclical laws governed human affairs just as much as they did the revolutions of the heavens. He argued that like human bodies, laws and kingdoms, cities and lineages, had a natural life span that could not be exceeded, a concept he demonstrated by means of summaries of the history of, inter alia, the ancient Hebrews from Moses to the time of Christ, the Roman Empire, the kingdom of France, and the Cardano family.99 Elsewhere, he extended the role of astrological causation in history to include cultural and artistic phenomena, pointing out that poetry, eloquence, painting, sculpture, music, medicine, and philosophy ›ourished or declined together, as exempli‹ed by their decline after the Augustan Age and revival “at the beginning of our ›ourishing age, which occurred about 1440,” all of which depended on the stars.100 But despite postulating an astrologically determined Renaissance, Cardano also allowed for other causes in history.

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The seven principal calamities that af›icted the human race arose from the elements, the stars, and the nature of animals and men—pestilence from the air, earthquakes from the earth, ›oods from water, con›agrations from “a certain accident called ‹re” (Cardano did not number ‹re among the elements), sterility from the heavens, some of the plagues of Egypt from animals, and wars from men.101 It is, I think, in the context of these ideas that we must understand Cardano’s discussion, in another work, of the medical question “whether plague is the result of the necessary constitution of the world” (An pestis sit ex necessitate constitutionis mundi).102 But Cardano’s meditations about the reasons for the historic incidence of epidemics were not merely abstract, as is evident from passages that reveal that he collected speci‹c historical information on the subject (as Mercuriale was to do a generation later). Cardano’s De venenis includes references to epidemics at the time of the emperor Antoninus Pius and Pope Gregory I and to the fourteenth-century plague pandemic (which Cardano dated to 1339), as well as to a series of oubreaks between 1475 and 1544.103 In tackling the question about the necessity for plague, Cardano was, he explained, examining the claim of some people (quidam) that plague is, as it were, a periodic purging of the human race to relieve the pressure of population on food supply (Cardano does not indicate to whom he attributed this apparent anticipation of Malthus).104 The idea that the causes of plague were the stars, the weather, and the will of God—announced by prodigies, “as historians relate” (ut historici narrant)—all appeared to support such an argument, since these are universal forces. Yet in reality, Cardano went on to argue, the stars and the air cannot be the cause of every outbreak of epidemic disease, since many epidemics do not simultaneously attack animals and people and since many kill people only selectively, the selection often depending on social factors. (Cardano was under the impression, contrary to the view of modern historians, that plague was more likely to kill nobles than common people, since, in his view, it seldom struck those who exercised much and ate little.) In fact, Cardano argued, pestilence never attacked the entire human race; in places where it struck, some people avoided it; and there were some effective remedies: it had never occurred at any time in history that an entire people were wiped out by pestilence. Cardano’s environmental or biological determinism was here tempered, like his astrology, by the operations of divine providence, human free will, and chance. Yet he concluded that it was nevertheless possible that epidemics occurred to improve the world by eliminating the weak, the diseased, and those with bad habits

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and that eventually there would result “a new type of men, more secure, with better habits, more handsome and stronger, longer lived, with purer soul.”105 Cardano claimed that by then, when illness did strike, effective remedies would have been developed not only for some people but for everyone.

the history of the profession of medicine Like other physicians, Cardano frequently introduced history of medicine into the prefaces of his medical works. In so doing, he was following a conventional practice, and the prefaces he wrote are quite conventional as regards their sources and general content. Yet these passages, too, show Cardano both expatiating on historical matters at somewhat greater length than was usual in such a context and preoccupied with issues of historical judgment. Thus, the history of anatomy prefaced to his commentary on the early fourteenth-century anatomical treatise of Mondino de’ Liuzzi rates Vesalius highly as an anatomist but judges him less gifted in literary expression than Galen and is sharply critical of Vesalius’s moral character.106 Writing in an age in which advanced medical opinion scorned medieval Arabic contributions to medicine, Cardano prefaced a commentary on Avicenna’s Canon of Medicine with a substantial bio-bibliography of Avicenna and a reply to the criticisms of medical humanists that vigorously defended both Avicenna’s moral character (which Cardano considered much superior to that of Galen) and the usefulness of his work.107 More central to Cardano’s interest in the history of medicine as a discipline was the fortuna of Hippocrates. His attempt to distinguish authentic Hippocratic treatises from the writing of followers and from spurious works is among the earliest such endeavors in the Renaissance, even though the actual basis for his judgment was nothing other than Galen’s opinion.108 In his Medicinae encomium, in which Cardano addressed the history of the discipline more broadly than in prefaces focused on particular authors or works, he pointedly discarded the classical legendary history that traced medicine’s origins to Apollo and or Aesculapius: “Omitto fabulas de Appolline, ut dixi, et Aesculapio.” Instead, in a move apparently intended to endow medicine with the noblest origin of all, he traced its roots exclusively to the sacred actions of the Christian deity, as exempli‹ed by the healing of Naaman the Syrian and Tobias in the Old Testament and, above all, by the miracles of Christ: “Christ, whom no one doubts to have been God, did nothing greater and nothing more frequently than practice medicine, but in his own way (that is divinely), healing sick people of every sort” (Christus, quem nemo

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addubitat Deum fuisse, nihil maius egit, nihil frequentius quam quod medicinam sed suo more (divino scilicet), exerceret, aegros omnis generis sanando). He traced the subsequent history of sacred physical medicine through the healing miracles recorded in the Acts of the Apostles to the ongoing activities of the saints, especially St. Roch. As evidence for the continuing presence and ef‹cacy of this divine physical healing, he pointed to the multitude of exvotos put up in churches by grateful recipients of miracles. He further stressed the divine origins of all medicine by quoting the endorsement of the physician in Ecclesiasticus, pointing out that God had created materia medica, and characterizing dietary and purity laws in the Old Testament as divinely inspired health regulations.109 The ideas of medicine as a divine gift and of Christus medicus were, of course, topoi of long standing.110 Many patristic and medieval authors referred to Christ as the physician of both souls and bodies or used the expression Christus medicus with reference to spiritual healing. Cardano’s very literal reading of the concept made Christ—not the shadowy mythological ‹gures of Apollo or Aesculapius nor the (in his view) ›awed character of Galen—the historical exemplar of the model practicing physician. Although the claim undoubtedly is a rhetorical ›ourish appropriate for an encomium, there is no reason to question its serious intent. But in a way that seems characteristic of the contradictory and ironic ›avor of Cardano’s historical judgments, he juxtaposed a decidedly secular view of medicine’s subsequent development to this sacred history. Three sets of historical examples illustrate the proposition—itself echoing proverbial medieval maxims about the professions—that “whether you want to get fame or wealth or friends, there is no better or more fruitful discipline” (Seu enim nomen seu divitias aut amicos parare velis, disciplina nulla melius aut uberius praestare potest). Only the third of these three sets seems unambiguous; it endorses the great nobility of medicine by providing a list of kings, beginning with Hermes Trismegistus and leading on to the kings of France, who were not ashamed to practice healing by their royal touch. The other two sets both include counterexamples that undercut Cardano’s apparent purpose. Those that supposedly show that “there seems to be no art, nor indeed any power or dignity, that can, without envy, injury, or offense, do good in the way medicine can” (nulla enim ars videtur, imo neque potentia ulla aut dignitas, quae sine invidia, sine iniuria, sineque offensa benefacere possit, quemadmodum ars medica) consist of instances in which famous rulers were treated by physicians along with historic episodes in which medicine played a major rule. But the examples are not only of medical success (Hippocrates’

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cure of the plague of Athens) but also of medical failure (the unsuccessful treatment of a Venetian admiral, resulting in a Turkish victory). The remaining set of examples, which illustrates the wealth that medicine can bring with anecdotes about the vast sums received by some famous physicians, slides into the topos of medical avarice with a story from Commynes of the doctor who charged Louis XI of France an extortionate fee to treat the illness from which the king subsequently died.111 The Medicinae encomium makes highly ambiguous use of exemplary history. Perhaps the dif‹culty of relating exempla to theory in medicine and astrology, the political vicissitudes of Milan, his personal connections with Milanese historians and antiquaries, and his reading of modern as well as ancient historians all played their parts in persuading Cardano just how problematic the lessons of history could be.

Chapter Five

ROME: MEDICINE, HISTORIES, ANTIQUITIES, AND PUBLIC HEALTH

T

hroughout the second half of the sixteenth century, Rome was the scene of a battle of the books over the potability of Tiber water. On the one side, Giovanni Battista Modio denounced the water as undrinkable and proclaimed any physician who pronounced it wholesome as incompetent. On the other, in a series of publications spread over some thirty years, Alessandro Traiano Petroni and Andrea Bacci energetically defended the river.1 The issue was one of public health, and the context was or soon became the efforts of sixteenth-century popes to provide alternative sources of water for the city. All three of these authors were physicians, and all three appealed, as one might expect, to medical knowledge and to their own medical experience. But in addition, two of the three also incorporated into their arguments not only the natural history of rivers and waters but also substantial historical and antiquarian information about water supply and water management in ancient Rome. This episode exempli‹es the ease with which Renaissance learned physicians integrated medicine with historical and antiquarian as well as natural historical learning. Yet against this broader background, the quarrel about the potability of the Tiber also belongs to a very speci‹c milieu, one in which references to the ancient Roman past both were part of the universal currency of humanistic culture and had immediate local resonance. Indeed, the particu168

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lars of medicine, history, the study of antiquities, and natural history were often necessarily local, whether they concerned patients, past events, monuments, or natural features. Thus, the quarrel over the Tiber serves to introduce the range of uses of historia in the medical world of late sixteenth-century Rome. Roman physicians concerned themselves with historia in many forms: with medical case histories and other historiae about individuals, with natural history, and with the written record and material remains of the past. In so doing, they responded to an environment shaped not only by local health conditions and their experience of medical study, professional practice, or teaching in Rome but also by the religious life and institutions of the papal city and ›ourishing local cultures of natural history and antiquarianism. The world of Roman antiquarianism has already appeared brie›y in chapter 2, as part of the context of Girolamo Mercuriale’s investigation of ancient physical culture and athletics. As noted there, encounters with antiquaries in the household of Cardinal Alessandro Farnese, one of the principal collectors of antiquities and patrons of the study of antiquities in Rome, were evidently important for Mercuriale’s work. But Mercuriale resided in Rome for less than a decade, early in his long career; he left the city permanently in 1569. By contrast, the focus of the present chapter is a group of physicians of the next generation who spent their entire careers in Rome and whose experience of medical practice in Rome and involvement with Roman institutions, patronage, and culture were much more extensive and prolonged. The lives of Andrea Bacci (1524–1600),2 Marsilio Cagnati (1543–1612),3 and Angelo Vittori (1547–after 1633)4 were loosely linked by some common experiences and by personal connections with Alessandro Petroni, a renowned physician in Rome who died around 1585.5 Among them, only Andrea Bacci enjoyed fame in his lifetime approaching that of Mercuriale, and many other Roman physicians of their generation and the succeeding one equally merit investigation.6 Nonetheless, these four men are representative of several of the various roles that elite medical practitioners might ful‹ll in the papal city. And in one way or another, each of the four involved himself in investigating and documenting some aspect of the city’s past, whether material remains of ancient Rome, ancient civic endeavors to make use of or control natural phenomena, local epidemiological history, the case histories of individual patients, or records of miracles. In the period spanned by their careers in Rome, the cultural and especially the religious contexts had changed in several respects from that of the middle—and even more markedly since the early—decades of the sixteenth century. The study of plants, animals, and minerals and that of antiquities con-

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tinued to ›ourish side by side, as the vast enterprise of Cassiano dal Pozzo’s paper museum testi‹es.7 Papal patronage of scholarship in natural history was of long standing, being already exempli‹ed in the mid-‹fteenth century by Nicholas V’s sponsorship of new translations of the Aristotelian works on animals and of Theophrastus on plants. A sixteenth-century example is the appointment of Michele Mercati (1541–93), student of Cesalpino and mineralogist, as prefect of the Vatican botanic garden. Natural history was central to the activities and interests of several members of the early seventeenth-century Lincei (of whom Cassiano was one).8 The interest of Roman humanists in antiquities, too, had a long history and took many forms, not all of them necessarily exclusively connected with the past of the city itself.9 Of course, humanists based outside Rome also concerned themselves with the ancient monuments of the city, as did Giovanni Marcanova, a professor of medicine at Padua and later Bologna, whose collections of descriptions and drawings assembled in the 1460s provide one of the most important early examples of the impulse to record and depict the monuments of ancient Rome.10 But for humanists in Rome itself, both the institutions and customs and the physical remains of the ancient city were obviously subjects of special interest. From the time of Alberti and Biondo in the ‹fteenth century onward, the mapping, description, illustration, and, in some instances, preservation of the physical remains, monuments, and landscape of the ancient city were the focus of intense scholarly and artistic interest and endeavor, as was the unearthing and collection of ancient coins, medals, inscriptions, and objects of art.11 In addition, Renaissance attempts to perpetuate or re-create ancient Roman traditions reveal a strong (if almost entirely imaginary) sense of identity with the city’s ancient past, as when, around 1500, Marco Antonio Altieri claimed to have identi‹ed local wedding customs as survivals of ancient Roman tradition. The notion of identity or continuity with ancient Roman forebears continued to ‹nd expression well into the sixteenth century in the shape of claims of some noble Roman families to improbable antique genealogies.12 But unlike the study of plants, animals, and minerals, not all aspects of antiquarianism were unproblematic in papal Rome, especially after the midsixteenth century. Even at the height of ‹fteenth-century humanist enthusiasm for antiquity, some kinds of interest in ancient Roman religion were unacceptable in the papal city. The celebration of ancient Roman festivals in the circle of Pomponio Leto helped to bring disaster on the Roman Academy, suppressed by Paul II in 1468 (though the accusation of paganism was only one of several charges against the academicians).13 The more rigorous reli-

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gious climate of the middle years of the next century, especially in the reigns of Popes Paul IV (Carafa) and Pius V (Ghislieri), was less favorable to humanistic studies of classical antiquity. In particular, the collection of pagan antiquities by churchmen—notably, in Rome, by cardinals—engendered some criticism. It has recently been suggested that a desire to counter such criticism may have been behind changes that subsequently rendered visiting scholars’ access to some private collections in Rome more selective, systematic, and controlled.14 Yet although some antiquaries left Rome soon after the middle of the century (among them Antonio Agustín, Pirro Ligorio, and Mercuriale), other important ‹gures, such as Fulvio Orsini, remained. Moreover, even though, in the later sixteenth century, some aspects of the remains of pagan antiquity became increasingly incompatible with the religious climate of Counter-Reformation Rome, that same climate fostered yet another speci‹cally Roman form of antiquarianism. The focus of intensive investigation and description now became the physical remains of early Christian Rome, the vitae of early Roman saints and especially martyrs, and the narrative of early Roman ecclesiastical history.15 Moreover, in some areas of Roman life and even civic government, practical considerations combined with antiquarian interest to foster investigation of the physical remains of the ancient city. For example, the needs of the growing city directed attention to the ancient water supply and made the restoration of some of the ancient aqueducts (attempted as early as the reign of Nicholas V and carried on with more success in the next century) important projects of papal government. Somewhat similarly, the taste for gardens that was a prominent feature of the villa culture of aristocrats and prelates in sixteenth-century Rome and its environs brought together fascination with ancient art and architecture, interest in nature, and a practical need for copious water.16 As will become apparent, humanistically educated physicians could be deeply involved in the aspects of the cultural and intellectual environment of late sixteenth-century Rome just sketched. But their professional lives were shaped by medical institutions and physician-patient relations. Bacci, Cagnati, and Vittori all came to Rome as young men, soon after completing university studies in medicine elsewhere. Rome was a magnet for the ambitious in the sixteenth century, and they, like many others, were no doubt drawn by the opportunities for professional advancement in one of Europe’s greatest cities, the religious capital of the Catholic world, and a major center of learning.17 Yet the highly competitive medical world of Rome offered no single secure path to professional authority, social status, or recognition.

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Rather, multiple and interlocking institutions and sources of patronage shaped medical careers. The principal academic institution, for medicine as for other faculties, was the University of Rome, La Sapienza. The studium urbis had suffered many disruptions in the fourteenth and ‹fteenth centuries and again for a few years immediately following the sack of Rome, but reforms by sixteenth-century popes provided a new stability (and further papal control). Though the faculty of medicine was small, it included some distinguished professors who were fully abreast of the most advanced medical teaching of the time.18 The university developed a strong tradition of anatomical teaching: dissection was practiced from early in the century, and Bartolomeo Eustachi, Realdo Colombo, and Arcangelo Piccolomini all taught in the studium urbis.19 A new emphasis on teaching botanical materia medica appeared as early as 1513, when a chair in medicinal simples was established (teaching of the subject seems to have occurred consistently from 1539; a botanical garden was established at the Vatican in about 1570). Two professors of medicine also became well known for their work in natural history: Ippolito Salviani, professor of practical medicine, author of a large illustrated work on ‹sh, and correspondent of Aldrovandi; and Andrea Bacci, one of the group with which this chapter is principally concerned.20 The university was not the only source of medical instruction and certainly not the only source of medical prestige. Another important medical institution was the Ospedale di Santo Spirito, where dissections were regularly carried out and where, by the late sixteenth century, lectures on medicine, surgery, and anatomy were regularly given.21 Alessandro Petroni, who was simultaneously attending physician at the hospital of Santo Spirito and papal physician, provided a model of a successful Roman medical career outside the university, just as his personal connection with St. Ignatius Loyola suggests close involvement with the religious life of the city. Although Petroni taught medicine and composed medical works in Latin, he does not appear to have had any formal association with the studium urbis.22 His teaching most likely took place at the hospital. Yet another important institution was the College of Physicians, headed by the protomedico, or chief medical authority, of the city. The College of Physicians, at Rome as elsewhere, was composed of a small number of elite physicians practicing in the city. Some of its members might also teach in the studium urbis, though this was not necessarily always the case. The protomedico and the college were responsible for licensing and supervising all medical practitioners and apothecaries in Rome. In Rome, the college was also the of‹cial source of medical degrees, granted after university examinations.23

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Above all, in the world of practice, appointment as a papal physician represented the summit of professional success, the opportunity to enjoy the highest level of patronage, and entrée to one of the most important courts in Europe. Appointments in the households of the cardinals or of members of Rome’s secular nobility or to attend houses of the city’s numerous religious orders also offered many opportunities for prestigious medical practice in the service of powerful patrons. All these forms of elite medical activity gave those so inclined access to a range of intellectual and scienti‹c circles and interests beyond medicine. All four of the physicians on whom this chapter is focused achieved substantial success in Rome through some combination of in›uential patrons or patients, academic status, authorial reputation, or responsible appointment. But each found a different balance among the routes, institutions, and approaches just outlined. Bacci was born and completed his early education in small towns in Le Marche, studied medicine at the University of Siena, and moved to Rome around 1550. There, he obtained an appointment to the chair of medicinal simples in the university (1567), a grant of Roman citizenship (1581), the patronage of Cardinal Ascanio Colonna, and ultimately, it would appear, the position of physician to Sixtus V.24 Bacci’s successful climb seems to have been owing chie›y to his copious written works on natural history and medicine (printed during his lifetime in both Rome and other cities), rather than to any great renown as a practitioner.25 Cagnati and Vittori both started out in Rome as disciples of Petroni. As just noted, it seems likely that their studies with him, which evidently included a component of practical instruction, took place at the hospital. Originally from Verona, Cagnati had graduated in medicine from the University of Padua, where his teachers included Iacopo Zabarella. Cagnati’s Roman career combined prestigious academic and institutional responsibilities with practice among houses of religious orders and senior clergy. He became a professor of theoretical and, subsequently, practical medicine at La Sapienza, succeeded Petroni as the attending physician at Santo Spirito, was several times appointed the city’s protomedico, and was physician to several cardinals. His written works range from a philological miscellany to such practical endeavors as the compilation of an almanac and the composition of treatises on the ›ooding of the Tiber and the health effects of Roman air. His contributions to the two last topics may well have been connected with his position as protomedico, since that of‹ce usually involved duties concerning public health.26 As protomedico, Cagnati was involved in adjudicating a dispute about the

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authenticity of a medicinal substance, and his account of that dispute provides a glimpse of how the protomedico, the College of Physicians, the university, and the papal government of the city interacted. A merchant who had contracted with another to buy a large amount of guiac, or lignum sanctum— the wood from the Caribbean that was believed to be a cure for morbus gallicus and other diseases—insisted that the wood he received was not true lignum sanctum and refused to pay. The dispute was referred to the College of Physicians, which pronounced that the wood in question was one of several kinds of lignum sanctum and could be used for the treatment of morbus gallicus. The purchaser appealed the decision, and the case went to the Camera Apostolica, which summoned distinguished physicians who were not members of the College of Physicians and many apothecaries to examine the issue carefully, all of whom “except for one or two apothecaries” supported the vendor. Still not satis‹ed, the purchaser obtained an authorization from the pope for yet another inquiry by experts, which it became Cagnati’s responsibility as protomedico to conduct. He convoked a meeting of the College of Physicians and invited other physicians, apothecaries, and anyone with professional or technical knowledge of lignum sanctum to give evidence, which was duly notarized. Finally, a public disputation was held in the university in the presence of an invited audience that included members of the College of Physicians, other physicians, apothecaries, and even artisans who prepared guiac for medicinal use; it debated “whether the wood known as Corrado’s wood [i.e., that sold by Corrado] is real lignum sanctum effective for use in medicine or not.” The conclusion was, as the College of Physicians had declared in the ‹rst place, that it was one of several types of authentic lignum sanctum. Guiac was an expensive medicine in much demand among all classes of the population in sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century Rome and was regularly provided free to large numbers of poor people at San Giacomo, the city’s hospital for incurabili, so there may have been pragmatic reasons for the repeated reaf‹rmation of the college’s (and Cagnati’s own) original conclusion.27 But it is also true that no clear criteria for distinguishing between species and variety yet existed and that presumably no one involved in the dispute had had the opportunity to see the plant in its native habitat. Cagnati’s case for the existence of several varieties of guiac rested on Gonzalo Fernandez’s vague descriptions in La historia general delas Indias of similar trees seen in different West Indian islands, as read in the light of Theophrastus’s remarks about similar or related types of trees.28 Both Bacci and Cagnati clearly belonged to a circle of learned physicians, naturalists, and antiquarians in Rome. Bacci’s personal contacts included (in

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addition to his friend Petroni) Mercuriale, Cardano during the latter’s last years in Rome, and the antiquarians Fulvio Orsini (1529–1600) and Pedro Chacon (1526–81). Bacci also maintained signi‹cant scienti‹c contacts outside Rome, corresponding with Aldrovandi and with a naturalist in Peru.29 In his youth, Cagnati seems to have known Onofrio Panvinio (1529–68), whom he praised as “the man to whom we owe more than any of the others who undertook the work of unearthing the antiquities of the city from darkness.”30 Another friend was Michele Mercati, who, in Cagnati’s words, was “most expert in the medical art and the res herbaria and outstanding in the study of metallica at Rome.” Cagnati visited Mercati’s collection of minerals and was the recipient of a manuscript copy of his unpublished Metallotheca.31 Cagnati’s funeral oration was delivered by a friend of a younger generation, the Jesuit Giovanni Battista Ferrari, later to become professor of Hebrew in the Roman Jesuit college, a celebrated botanical author, and a member of the Lincei. Ferrari described Cagnati as one who “cultivated astrology along with history,” probably referring to Cagnati’s almanac, which (in addition to combining condemnation of judicial astrology with insistence on the importance of the stars as signs) incorporated a short treatise on the history of calendar reform from Numa to Gregory XIII.32 Vittori, who graduated from Perugia before coming to Rome, seems— unlike Bacci and Cagnati—never to have held a professorship of medicine but to have been primarily a practitioner. His published output was certainly much less than either of theirs. If his posthumously printed Consultationes are in any way representative, most of his patients were members of the Roman nobility, with about one-third of them women. He also seems occasionally to have served as an expert witness in secular court cases.33 But it is clear that his most important patrons were among the clergy. From about 1585 onward, he was physician to the Oratorian community; his patients included Filippo Neri, whose autopsy he recorded both in testimony during Neri’s canonization process and in a separately published pamphlet.34 He became a papal physician (to Gregory XIII) and, presumably because of his close relations with the Curia, is said to have been an expert witness in several other canonization processes. Drawing on the writings of these men, I shall focus, in this chapter, on three topics: (1) history and antiquarianism in the service of contemporary Roman public health; (2) historiae of Roman baths included along with those of natural springs; and (3) case histories, sacred and profane. The ‹rst two topics by no means exhaust either the natural historical or the antiquarian and historical interests of the group. Bacci also published treatises on poisons,

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on precious stones, and on the unicorn, and he planned but never completed a work on earths, minerals, and metals. His treatise on the unicorn makes a noteworthy, if not very successful, attempt to establish grounds on which reports of phenomena outside the realm of one’s own experience could be believed (Bacci concluded that unicorns existed but that most of the supposed horn specimens in Europe were fakes).35 Cagnati’s Observationes variae is mostly a humanist philological and antiquarian miscellany, though one chie›y concerned with medical topics. The majority of the entries consist of emendations or interpretations of passages in ancient medical and natural philosophical authors, but the work also includes essays on, for example, the history of silk, ancient Greek coinage, and ancient maps, as well as a correction of Patrizi’s dating of Strabo.36 Two evaluations of Cagnati’s Observationes, written a hundred years apart, may delimit changing ideas of medical relevance: in 1670, the founders of the Miscellanea curiosa medico-physica Academiae Naturae curiosorum included Cagnati in a long list of authors who had published collections of observationes of great value for medical practice; in the next century Albrecht von Haller merely noted that Cagnati read the ancient authors “diligently enough” but not always accurately.37 Yet in a sixteenth- or seventeenth-century context, all the topics listed in the preceding paragraph could be regarded as having some relation to medicine. Indeed, physicians in Rome seem to have largely con‹ned their published historical and antiquarian writings to subjects that had some bearing, however remote, on medicine or health. In this, they stand in striking contrast to the physician historians who will be discussed in the next two chapters and, for that matter, to many other Renaissance and early modern medically trained authors, some of whom have already been mentioned. Thus, Bacci’s one work on civil history—a short account of his native place, the small town of Sant’Elpidio in Piceno— remained in manuscript until more than a hundred years after his death. In it, Bacci was passionately concerned to insist that Sant’Elpidio stood on the site of the ancient Cluana (the site of the ancient city is still disputed but has usually been placed at Civitanova in Le Marche). But he also told of the Germanic invasions of Italy, supposed activities of Charlemagne in the neighborhood of Sant’Elpidio, the town’s medieval civic government, the foundation of various churches, the adverse effect on Sant’Elpidio of the con›icts of Guelfs and Ghibellines, the town’s loyalty to the pope as demonstrated by “una lettera nei nostri archivi” dated 1321, recent ‹nds of antiquities in a local vineyard, local notables, and his own family.38 Even more strikingly, Sallustio Salviani, a professor of theoretical medi-

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cine at the studium urbis from 1570 until after 1586, found it necessary to mount a strong defense against accusations of excessive interest in—of all subjects in papal Rome—sacred history, at the expense of his medical studies and duties. In dedicating his treatise on natural and febrile heat to Cardinal Vincenzo Lauro, Salviani indignantly recounted that many jealous and malevolent people, who were unable to ‹nd fault either with history or with his forthcoming Historia sacra in twelve books, instead complained that his devotion to history caused him to forget medicine. In reality, he argued, he had constantly applied himself to the study of medicine, taught at the studium for sixteen years, practiced medicine in the city, and consulted with distinguished colleagues. He retorted that the time he spent on historical studies was the time his detractors spent on “games and too much sleep.” Although Salviani claimed that his historical work was going to be printed very soon, I have so far found no trace of it.39 But the writings of Bacci, Cagnati, and Vittori on history and antiquarianism in the service of public health, historiae of Roman baths along with natural springs, and sacred and profane case histories reveal salient uses of historia in the medical world of late sixteenth-century Rome.

history, antiquarianism, and public health The importance of environment and lifestyle was an enduring feature of Hippocratic-Galenic medical teaching, re›ected in numerous medieval and Renaissance expositions of regimen. In the sixteenth century, however, attention to the in›uence of place as an aspect of medicine seems to have intensi‹ed, a development illustrated—as it was probably encouraged—by a new interest in the Hippocratic Airs Waters Places.40 In the case of Rome, moreover, the period was one of massive rebuilding during which the papal government also displayed much concern for the city’s health and water supply.41 The physicians who are the focus of this chapter wrote not only on water supply but also on diet, the disease environment, and exercise in their local context. In regard to water, the Tiber presented the major health concerns (the water of the restored aqueducts being generally regarded as good). One issue was the debate (summarized earlier) over the quality of the water. But another, which aroused much broader concern in the sixteenth and the early seventeenth centuries, was the river’s propensity to ›ood. In this period, Tiber ›oods—which remained a problem until the second half of the nineteenth century—were indeed becoming more frequent and more devastating (perhaps in part as a result of human activity).42 Among the many

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authors who wrote on the ›ooding of the Tiber were the physicians Bacci and Cagnati, both of whom discussed the subject as a contemporary urban issue affecting the health of the city. Their contributions differed in goals and methodology, but each made extensive use of historical examples and argument. Bacci’s interests in natural history were broad, but water seems to have been central to his concerns. His treatment of the Tiber was certainly more expansive than any by Modio, Petroni, or Cagnati. The Tiber receives a good deal of attention in Bacci’s principal work, De thermis, a massive survey of all kinds of waters, rivers, baths, and springs. There, he expatiated on the Tiber in the course of discussing rivers in general. For example, he claimed that even though such esteemed medical authorities as Hippocrates and Celsus considered river water less wholesome than either rainwater or water from springs, this judgment did not apply to rivers of superior length and grandeur, such as the Nile and the Tiber.43 But he reserved his fullest treatment of the Tiber for a vernacular work devoted exclusively to it. His ‹rst version of Del Tevere, published in 1558, was an immediate response to the pamphlet in which Modio attacked the quality of Tiber water. Bacci expanded the second edition (1576) into a substantial treatise in three books, of which the ‹rst presented arguments about the nature and goodness of the Tiber’s water, the second gave medical advice (topics included storage and puri‹cation, health effects, and a diatribe against arti‹cially chilled drinks), and the third addressed ›ood control.44 The especially disastrous ›ood of Christmas 1598 induced him to add yet a fourth book, published independently, in which he gave an account of the recent inundation, listed previous regulations and proposals for ›ood control, and proposed further suggestions. He also incorporated a brief history of the principal ›oods in Rome up to 1530, compiled by a papal of‹cial in the reign of Clement VII. Even at the very end of his life, Bacci was still pressing on Clement VIII advice about ›ood control, especially concerning the need to pay attention to the historical record of ancient experience and practice. In a letter addressed to that pontiff, Bacci asserted his own long study of and expertise in problems of ›ooding; called for attention to reports of diversion of rivers by Herodotus, Diodorus Siculus, and Pliny; and considered the feasibility of various schemes for diverting the Tiber.45 Many of the central arguments and examples in Del Tevere refer not only to the natural history of water but also to the human history of ancient Roman practices relating to water supply. Moreover, in his dedicatory letter to the Senate and people of Rome, Bacci invoked a kind of metahistory linking nature and human affairs, asserting that “if the Tiber had had the empire

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of the world and given laws and true religion to all people, so it could be the rule and example of good qualities of all other natural waters.”46 Modio, too, had argued from Roman history. He insisted that the ancient Romans had used the Tiber for drinking only early in their history, before they grew wealthy, powerful, and technologically advanced enough to construct the aqueducts, of which he gave a capsule account, presumably drawn from the ‹rst-century treatise on the waters of Rome by Frontinus.47 But Bacci’s counterarguments involved a much more thorough and widely based examination of the history of changes in Roman water supply and use. He relied on multiple sources to argue that the impulse behind the construction of the aqueducts was the result not of any inherent defect of the Tiber but of urban development. He culled Livy and Virgil for remarks about the original small size and subsequent increase of the early population. He called attention particularly to the need for water generated by the introduction of public baths and to the problems caused by the runoff of the baths ›owing into the Tiber, and he drew on Pliny for information about the washing habits of the ancient Romans.48 But his most extensive use of historical arguments is found in book 3, on ›ood prevention, where he seems to have tried to use historical research as a practical tool for modern reform. After lengthy discussion of the causes of ›oods, he provided a list of ancient and modern Tiber ›oods and a lively historia of the ›ood of 1557, which “in very few hours made most of Rome navigable.”49 He then embarked on a critique of contemporary measures of control. His central contention was that ›ooding was getting progressively more severe because modern administrators and engineers neglected the methods of the ancients. Accordingly, Bacci combed Tacitus and Suetonius for information about the efforts of Augustus and Tiberius to moderate ›oods and examined inscriptions recording later imperial projects in ›ood control.50 Bacci’s interest in this topic re›ected his personal involvement in it. He recorded that in 1566, an edict of Pius V had invited “ingenious spirits” to suggest remedies for the problem of ›ooding. As a result, Bacci had participated in consultations on the subject with Cardinals Sforza and Montepulciano, the “mastri di strada,” and “many noble architects and engineers.”51 Bacci thought very little of the “secrets” proposed by some of the technical experts: “I believe and hold for certain that every time they depart from the method that the ancients regularly used in this business, they will always deceive themselves.”52 He went on to describe and evaluate a series of schemes that had supposedly been tried under successive Roman emperors. In this way, ancient engineering could be the model for modern; thus, his account of

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“the fourth remedy, to make an embankment along the Tiber in imitation of the emperor Aurelian,” was accompanied by an approving reference to Cosimo I’s embankment of the Arno.53 Bacci drew his information about ancient engineering projects primarily from textual sources: the histories of Tacitus and Dio Cassius, Pliny, Plutarch, and Cicero’s correspondence. But he also appealed to material evidence—in the shape of ruins that he thought were the remains of ancient locks or barriers intended to control or divert tributaries—and to his own reading of the landscape itself. Thus, he described at length the effects on the terrain of the ancient construction and subsequent blockage of the canal known as the Curiana between the Velino (a tributary of the Tiber) and Nera rivers. The account is introduced with the remark: “I will relate a historia that cannot be read elsewhere, but that is drawn out of the true sense of ancient memoirs [in this instance, Cicero’s letters to Atticus] and from the site and nature of that lake.”54 Bacci explicitly paralleled his use of historical investigation in the interests of improved ›ood control with the practice of medicine: “We conclude and hold for a maxim that it is impossible completely to eliminate [›oods]. . . . However, it is necessary to proceed in the manner of a good physician who uses great care to ‹nd out all the causes of the disease and the appropriate remedies. And with all this, in the cure the most important thing is experience.” In the vocabulary of Renaissance medicine, “experience” could still frequently refer to experiences reported in ancient texts. In this instance, although Bacci also acknowledged the excellence of modern architects (naming Bramante and Michelangelo), his preferred experience was that of the ancients. Bacci advocated not only careful selection among ancient engineering solutions but also the reestablishment of ancient administrative of‹ces. He recommended that experienced men with good knowledge of mathematics and surveying be appointed as curatores of the Tiber, of‹cials who would be responsible for dredging, keeping the banks in order, and prohibiting people from throwing refuse into the river.55 Very different in approach is Cagnati’s brief Medical Disputation on the Flooding of the Tiber, published in 1599, the same year as book 4 of Del Tevere and almost twenty-‹ve years after the three-book edition of that work. The Medical Disputation is one of a pair of treatises by Cagnati—the other being On the Roman Air—that cannot easily be separated, as the essential subject of both is the Roman disease environment.56 Writing shortly after the exceptionally severe ›ood of 1598, Cagnati set out to demonstrate that ›oods in general and ›oods of the Tiber in particular were neither a portent nor a cause of either epidemics or individual cases of disease. He asserted that

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›oods had a natural cause, usually heavy rainfall; that they might sometimes be preceded by notable astrological conjunctions but were not always; and that many ›oods occurred without subsequent epidemics or other calamities. He based all these claims on historical examples drawn from both ancient Roman authors and the recent past. For example, the ›ood of 1530 had caused great damage to Roman citizens, but far from being calamitous, 1530 was a fortunate year, in which Charles V was crowned at Bologna by Clement VII and there was peace between France and the Empire. The idea that ›oods preceded epidemics was contradicted by instances when they did not—for example, in Rome in the 1490s, in 1530, and in 1557. Cagnati claimed that in other years, when a ›ood did precede an unhealthy summer and an epidemic (as was the case in Rome in 1589–90), the cause was not the ›ood but the “constitution of the year” (constitutio anni).57 Cagnati’s interest in the history of natural events and in epidemiological history is even more apparent in his work on Roman air. His stated purpose was to dispel the belief that the air of Rome was unhealthy. Given the reputation for unwholesomeness attached to Roman air from antiquity to the early twentieth century, his endeavor seems more suggestive of civic pride than of empiricism. Yet Cagnati defended Roman air with arguments based on empirical and historical considerations. As a counter to ancient medical opinion about the air’s insalubriousness, he pointed to changes since antiquity in the pattern of urban habitation. To demonstrate “that there are no more nor more pernicious diseases in the city than elsewhere,” he provided a year-by-year summary of health conditions in Rome from 1568 to 1580, a compilation that clearly implies that he was keeping some kind of epidemiological record or diary.58 Moreover, it seems likely that his chronology of Roman ›oods and epidemics was intended to be part of a larger project. A few years earlier, he had noted in his Observationes that he was working on “a chronology of natural things” that included attempts to make corrections in Pliny’s correlation of the Olympiad system with Roman dating, with regard to both astronomical events and events in human history.59 In the 1580s and 1590s, Petroni, Cagnati, and Bacci all wrote at length on diet, Petroni and Bacci with speci‹c reference to Rome, Cagnati clearly in the context of the contemporary Roman religious environment. Petroni’s work was a regimen for the inhabitants of modern Rome, who were from many different walks of life and “of many and various nations, but principally Italians, Spanish, French, and Germans.”60 Petroni had already written on diet more than thirty years earlier, when he addressed a consilium to Cardinal Bernardo Salviati about health precautions necessary for a conclave in December. After

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painting a gloomy picture of the close, sunless, cold, and unhealthy quarters in which the conclave would take place and the lung in›ammations, coughs, hoarseness, and aches and pains winter was apt to produce, especially in the elderly, Petroni proceeded to offer advice on diet to compensate as far as possible for these conditions.61 In his later, printed work on Roman diet, Petroni claimed that no one before him had written a regimen speci‹cally for Rome, but much of his advice was fairly standard. Nevertheless, this work, too, is localized in various ways. For example, it discusses the waters of the Tiber and the new fountains and aqueducts as well as wines from Rome and places nearby. Petroni also made the possibly ironic claim that since Roman food was less nourishing than food abroad, foreigners found they needed to eat more in Rome than they did at home. The remark may be an indirect allusion to the food shortages that were the principal dietary problem for most of Rome’s population in the second half of the sixteenth century. Moral, religious, or historical aspects of diet played little part in Petroni’s work, although he made a few references to Lent and to the practice of some members of religious orders of abstaining entirely from meat.62 By contrast, Cagnati’s De continentia centers on moral and religious issues and has substantial antiquarian content. It sets out to de‹ne true continence in the light of ancient Roman practice, Christian teaching, and the requirements of human physiology. Cagnati denounced dietary excess and praised religious fasting. But his insistence on the importance for health of eating suf‹cient food and more than one meal a day (chapters 9–10) may also re›ect awareness of current conditions in Rome.63 Bacci’s contribution to the literature of diet was to bring the full weight of his antiquarian and historical, as well as his medical, learning to bear on the subject of wine and the dining arrangements of the ancients. In De naturali vinorum historia, de vinis Italiae, et de conviviis antiquorum, as in De thermis and Del Tevere much earlier in his career, Bacci combined natural historical, medical, and antiquarian exposition. De naturali vinorum historia, published in 1596 and dedicated to Bacci’s patron Cardinal Colonna, is divided into seven books, of which two are primarily antiquarian, one medical, and four natural historical. The books mainly devoted to natural history (books 2, 5, 6, and 7) treat the properties of vines, grapes, and wines in general and the characteristics of wines from different regions of Europe, with special attention to Italian wines imported to Rome. Book 3, on the use of wine, addresses medical issues, among them the temperament of wine, whether it nourishes, its physiological effects (in moderation and in excess), wine in the regimen of health (according to season, sex, age, and temperament), and its use in sick-

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ness.64 Of the two antiquarian books (books 1 and 4), the ‹rst, devoted to wine in antiquity, consists largely of efforts to identify or explain various terms found in ancient authors to describe wines or wine products and mixtures; the second describes “the dinner parties of the ancients” (convivia antiquorum). As this description suggests, antiquity and natural history ‹ll much more of the volume than does medicine (although extensive use of medical authorities and discussion of medical considerations is by no means con‹ned to book 3). Yet in this work just as much as in Del Tevere, Bacci seems to have been intent on assessing both antiquarian and natural historical knowledge in terms of current practical—and often medical—usefulness. But whereas his Del Tevere had called for the revival of ancient practices, his work on wine and dining was often highly critical of them. Thus, although Bacci drew heavily on ancient medical authorities for book 3, his exposition emphasized historical relativity. He maintained that changes in diet and lifestyle since antiquity had been so great that ancient teachings about the nature and appropriate use of wine could no longer all be regarded as valid.65 His discussion of ancient methods of viticulture, wine making, and wine additives often involved comparisons with practices current in his own day, by no means always to the advantage of the ancients. For example, he remarked that Pliny’s description of ancient additives made the resulting concoction sound more like medicine than wine.66 His own accounts of viticulture and wine production, ancient and modern, frequently seem as concerned with the evaluation of methods of agriculture and technology as with natural history.67 In this work, Bacci’s antiquarianism ‹nds its fullest expression in book 4, on ancient dining. The goal of Bacci’s exposition was, as he said, to show “how from the common custom of life of those times and with what actions the Roman man spent the hours of the day and arranged his meals.”68 Numerous subsections describe or explain every imaginable detail of ancient Roman dining.69 Most of the evidence comes from Bacci’s reading of what he called an immense forest of ancient texts, although he also referred to “the authority . . . of various marble tombs.”70 But he reserved special attention for the one aspect of ancient dining habits that seemed to have religious signi‹cance: namely, whether Jesus and the apostles had reclined on couches or sat on chairs at the Last Supper.71 The topic had aroused interest among Roman antiquaries in Bacci’s circle of acquaintances since the time when, as noted in chapter 2, Girolamo Mercuriale had proposed a recumbent Last Supper in an early edition of his De arte gymnastica. Subsequently, the antiquaries Pedro Chacon and Fulvio Orsini both endorsed Mercuriale’s hypoth-

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esis (Mercuriale’s conviction that they plagiarized his work has already been noted).72 By contrast, Bacci—taking what seems to have been a minority position— vigorously denied that Christ and the apostles could have adopted a practice that he associated with the luxury, vices, and excess of pagan Roman aristocrats.73 In a move that simultaneously re›ected both Bacci’s own relation to his patron Ascanio Colonna and the ideals for the households of cardinals expressed by sixteenth-century popes and Catholic reformists, he contrasted this pagan Roman luxury with the present lifestyle of the cardinals. “In the moderation of our own times,” Bacci declared, “Our princes have very decent tables, and especially here in the Roman Curia we see that they are frugal, and of praiseworthy moderation in splendor, yet very well appointed.”74 The following description of the “honest sobriety” (hac honesta sobrietate) of Cardinal Ascanio Colonna’s “elegant daily dinner” (elegantem . . . quotidianam mensam) does not sound very frugal, with its lavish table settings, numerous attendants, song for “a chorus of grateful guests,” and recipe for olla podrida (doubtless a compliment to the cardinal’s Spanish tastes) calling for, inter alia, beef, pork, partridges, and doves.75 But Bacci’s description gives a lively picture of the guests and conversation at the table of this cultivated, Hispanophile, and wealthy prelate.76

roman baths in the historiae of natural springs In 1563, Bacci published a short treatise on the Acque Albuli baths at Tivoli and other baths or springs near Rome, in which he combined antiquarian information drawn from both texts and material remains with natural history and medical advice.77 The success of this work (it was almost immediately twice reprinted) presumably encouraged the author to complete his De thermis, a magnum opus that appeared only eight years later. This vast survey of the properties, uses, and locations of all kinds of springs and baths throughout Europe and beyond begins with a general natural historical overview of varieties of water—the seas, rivers, rainfall, and springs. There follow two books on the medicinal uses of different waters, both externally in bathing and taken internally. Three following books describe, respectively, sulphurous and hot springs, “mineral waters,” and “metallic waters.” The ‹nal book is entirely devoted to the baths of ancient Rome. The topic of springs, baths, and waters was hardly a new one for either medicine or natural history, and much of the content of Bacci’s work is highly derivative. For his accounts of the properties of different waters, Bacci chie›y

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relied, as one might expect, on ancient natural philosophical and medical authorities. For many of his historiae about particular springs and baths in Italy, as he acknowledged, he drew extensively on the considerable body of late medieval and early Renaissance writing on springs and spa waters, including such authors as Bartolomeo da Montagnana, Antonio Guainerio, Michele Savonarola, and Ugolino da Montecatino.78 Yet Bacci’s treatment went beyond his predecessors in both encyclopedic scope and organization, in a way that seems characteristic of late Renaissance and early modern natural history. The sections of the work on natural hot springs and mineral and metallic waters are informed by Bacci’s conviction that it was insuf‹cient either to generalize about the properties of minerals and metals or merely to discuss them in terms of their uses in alchemy or medicine. He maintained that it was not enough simply to describe the springs, spas, or baths of a particular region; instead, it was necessary to consider the qualities and effects of minerals and metals when mixed with different kinds of waters.79 Consequently, each of these sections of Bacci’s work begins with a substantial general account of the properties of the type of water in question, followed by descriptions of individual baths, springs, and spas.80 Bacci evidently took considerable pains to gather descriptions of baths, springs, and spas in regions outside Italy and indeed outside Europe, from recent travel writers and, in some instances, personal informants. For example, his information about Turkish baths in Hungary and salt mines in Transylvania came from chorographical works by Georg Werner and Georg Reychersdorff; for waters in India and Africa, he drew on the travel accounts of Ludovico Varthema and Alvise Cadamusto. He plumbed Barthelemy Chasseneuz’s vast compilation on human and natural hierarchies for a few remarks about hot springs in Burgundy and a brief pamphlet by a local physician for an account of the baths at Aachen.81 Moreover, from time to time, his historiae of individual spas or baths included passages of human history. Edward Carne, Queen Mary Tudor’s ambassador to the papacy, told him about the many mineral springs in Britain, but Bacci drew from Polydore Vergil the information that Bath had been founded by King Badaudus, who had constructed the baths there. Consequently, he rejected an explanation that ascribed them to Julius Caesar.82 His decision to include a historical and antiquarian account of ancient Roman baths in a work addressed to “physicians and students of nature” is also characteristic of its time, place, and author. Bacci, like others in Rome, had access to Mercuriale’s De arte gymnastica—perhaps the ‹rst notable product of the intersection of medicine with Roman antiquarianism—before

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its publication. Indeed, it seems likely that, as Bacci more or less explicitly acknowledged, he was inspired to include this section by Murcuriale’s work.83 Mercuriale had set out to re-create the lost world of athletics in the ancient baths and palaestrae, but he was reserved and cautious about modern applications, at least in civil life. By contrast, Bacci believed that knowledge of ancient Roman bathing practices, like knowledge of ancient Roman ›ood control, could offer useful practical guidance. He remarked that even the “very expert antiquaries [peritissimi antiquarii] of our age” had not completely succeeded in explaining the structure and uses of the baths, particularly as regards washing practices; he proposed to remedy the last defect and “especially to expound those things that are useful in medicine.”84 But although he stressed that his interest was purely in the medical or sanitary aspects of bathing, he nevertheless provided his readers with a list of Roman baths and the emperors responsible for their construction, the texts of related inscriptions, an account of the ancient aqueducts supplying the water for the baths (largely drawn from Frontinus), a plan of the Baths of Diocletian, and his own conclusions about the heating system and the uses of different sections of the baths.85 Renaissance and early modern accounts of Roman baths normally include denunciations of luxury and immorality, and Bacci was no exception. But he was unambiguous in his conviction that frequent washing and exercise at the baths contributed importantly to the “elegance of life . . . and health and strength of body” of the ancient Romans.86 In this instance, too, he sought to derive practical utility from ancient example hallowed by Roman imperial dignity and magni‹cence. His description of the medical usefulness of bathing draws, as one might expect, on ancient medical authorities but emphasizes its value for the treatment or prevention of modern diseases, notably the morbus gallicus.87 Moreover, he insisted that the ancients had private as well as public baths and that at least this custom could and should easily be imitated.88 While Bacci’s account of the Roman baths was in some sense a supplement to Mercuriale, Cagnati seems to have intended a critique of some of Mercuriale’s basic de‹nitions. According to Mercuriale (as noted in chapter 2 of the present study), gymnastica was divided into three categories: legitimate gymnastica medica, that is, exercise for the sake of health; partially legitimate gymnastica bellica, or exercises preparatory for war; and vicious and degenerate athletics, gymnastica vitiosa, carried out for the sake of competition or entertainment.89 Writing at a time when De arte gymnastica had been reissued in several successively enlarged editions, Cagnati inserted into a work on regimen a short dialogue on gymnastica and its relation to medicine, in which he

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set forth a very different view. The initial setting of the dialogue is a visit to the Thermae Antoninae by a visitor from Verona—presumably Cagnati himself—and his Roman host, during which they discuss the Greek and Roman history of gymnasia and athletics and consider whether ancient gymnasia contributed more to vice or to health. But the scene rapidly shifts to a dialogue within a dialogue, in which the most famous physicians of Verona in Cagnati’s midcentury youth, Girolamo Fracastoro and Antonio Fumanelli, are made to discuss the history and function of gymnastica, with special reference to the views of Plato and Galen. The thrust of the argument is to insist that any and all exercise that contributes to health is part of medicine—and medicine alone. But this does not include exercise done purely in order to build “athletic habitus,” which belongs to gymnastica, is not part of medicine, and is not necessary for health. Finally, the dialogue reverts to the original two speakers, and the Veronese guest and his Roman host conclude that gymnastica has nothing to do with medicine and that no part of gymnastica is anything other than vitiosa.90

case histories, sacred and profane “Just as history is very useful for the good government of public affairs because it is said to be the mistress of life, so also is it extremely useful for curing illness. We learn this suf‹ciently from the example of Hippocrates, which teaches that written descriptions of epidemics should not be taken lightly”— with these words, Cagnati introduced his account of two epidemics in Rome in 1591 and 1593.91 His parallel between civil history and medical narrative neatly exempli‹es both the responsiveness of medical thought to enthusiasm for history in the broader culture and the role of the Hippocratic Epidemics in fostering the proliferation of narratives about speci‹c outbreaks or individual cases of disease in sixteenth-century medical writing. As noted in chapter 2 of the present study, many signs of an increasing presence of narrative in medicine had already emerged in the fourteenth and ‹fteenth centuries. Among them were consilia for individual patients (though these are primarily recommendations for treatment rather than narratives of disease), advice on interrogating the patient, anecdotes embedded in works on surgery or practica, descriptions of autopsies, and accounts of remarkable cures. What is striking in the medical literature of the sixteenth century is therefore not the introduction but the multiplication and expansion of narrative or descriptive elements. This development re›ected primarily growing medical interest in particulars and in observation but also the availability of the complete

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Hippocratic Epidemics, which contains some of the principal examples of ancient medical narrative. Similarly, as noted earlier, Renaissance editions of Galen made it easier to appreciate Galen’s analyses of his own cases in Methodus medendi and elsewhere. Thus, sixteenth-century physicians had not one but two powerful models for case narratives. The Hippocratic case histories recorded the course of disease from onset to, indifferently, favorable or unfavorable outcome, with minimal analysis. Some of Galen’s accounts of his cases provided copious analysis but usually illustrated his success. At the same time, much medical writing about individual cases continued to take the traditional form of the consilium. All three of the Roman physicians seem to have regarded historiae about individual cases as essential tools of medical teaching and practice. Of the three, Bacci was probably the least concerned with medical practice. Even his participation—along with other professors and practitioners of medicine— in a debate on the proper composition of a remedy (the issue being whether viper’s ›esh was a necessary ingredient in theriac, to be used as a preservative or treatment in times of plague) appears informed more by theory than by experience.92 Nevertheless, in his work on poisons, he used a narrative of one of his own cases—the illness and death of Jacopo, a weaver from Trastevere who had been bitten by a mad dog—as a peg on which to hang an elaborate analysis of causes, signs, accidents, and treatment. In introducing the case, Bacci invoked the Hippocratic model with the remark that “examples and particular histories . . . please the audience, and the histories in the Epidemics of Hippocrates amplify information about disease no less than the teaching of the Aphorisms.” The narrative is Hippocratic in its attention to events from day to day and its record of an unfavorable outcome in the shape of Jacopo’s agonizing death. Yet Bacci’s decision to choose just one striking case from among “the many examples of this condition that I have seen (and I cured some of them)” and use it essentially as a rhetorical device to introduce his own exposition is more Galenic than Hippocratic.93 By contrast, Cagnati, who, as already noted, drew on records of epidemics to prove his contentions about ›oods and the Roman air, clearly did perceive systematic compilation of records of disease as providing useful empirical evidence. Yet another example of this attitude appears in his treatment of the concept of critical days of illness. Commenting on a Hippocratic aphorism that stated that the fourth day of illness was predictive of the patient’s condition on the seventh, he tested the claim against a series of seven detailed case histories of patients of his own and concluded that it was not valid.94 For Cagnati, use of the term historia in a medical context evidently embraced

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both types of record that occur in the Hippocratic Epidemics: disease patterns in a particular time and place and individual case histories. Indeed, he drew explicit parallels between cases described by the Hippocratic author and ones he had attended himself. For example, he observed that a noble Frenchman named Olivier had “exactly the same” (ad unguem) symptoms as a Heraclides who lay sick in the house of Aristocydes.95 Cagnati seems to have regarded the compilation of such records as an ongoing task of modern medicine to which he had consciously dedicated himself: “Many authors of our century have already recognized the usefulness of historiae. I indeed ‹rst imitated their studies of diseases for my own sake. [Diseases] have by now offered themselves for my observation during more than thirty-two years of medical practice, and I have spent no little labor and time in describing and examining them. But then it seemed that if I published a specimen of that study and labor, this could bring something of value to people studious of the science of medicine.”96 Yet, as the preceding remark shows, Cagnati, who had already published a large collection of his philological observationes, chose to present in print only selected examples of what may have been an equally extensive collection of personally observed medical historiae. One that he thought merited publication as an independent item was his account of the last illness (1603) of Cardinal Antonmaria Salviati, though this is in large part more an encomium of the cardinal’s virtues than a medical record. Nevertheless, it faithfully re›ects the patient’s attitude toward the medical profession. Cagnati reported that the cardinal, though seriously ill, many times said he did not need a doctor and particularly did not want Cagnati to call in a colleague for consultation, because he “‹rmly believed that when doctors asked for consultation with other doctors they thought patients were on the way out.”97 At least to the extent that it is possible to judge from their published writings, Angelo Vittori seems to have spent far more effort in assembling historiae of individual cases than either Bacci or Cagnati. Moreover, although Vittori was certainly conscious of ancient models for medical narrative and had learned from Petroni the importance of recording and analyzing historiae, he also drew extensively on quite different traditions: consilia, accounts of marvelous cures, and hagiography. In his lifetime, Vittori seems to have published only one item, his Medica disputatio on the autopsy of St. Filippo Neri. The history of this work in itself exempli‹es one kind of relation between historiae of disease and the elaboration of theoretical argument. Vittori was present at Neri’s autopsy and wrote up a brief, on-the-spot factual report (historia) of the ‹ndings. Subsequently, in addition to testifying orally during

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Neri’s canonization process, he wrote three lengthy interpretive versions of his original report. In these expositions, each more elaborate than the last, he surrounded his original historia with arguments and anatomical explication assembled from ancient and recent medical authorities, to demonstrate that Filippo Neri’s condition could not have been of natural (and therefore must have been of supernatural) origin. By 1613, when the third version appeared, the work had expanded into a formal medical treatise replete with quaestiones, discussion of causes, and citations of authorities.98 The main evidence for Vittori’s practice of collecting and preserving information about individual cases comes from the large volume of his consultationes published some time after his death by Vincenzo Mannucci, a professor of medicine and mathematics in Vittori’s native Perugia. The work is in reality a miscellany. Some three-quarters of the consultationes in the volume correspond to consilia of the type traditional since the thirteenth century and frequently assembled into collections in the fourteenth and ‹fteenth centuries, interspersed with a few brief treatises or quaestiones on random medical topics.99 The consultationes/consilia are letters of advice for individual patients, often in response to a written request, probably more likely to have come from the attending physician than from the patient. Some of them include a brief descriptive historia of the patient’s illness, but the emphasis is on recommendations for treatment. The presence of lengthy theoretical discussions suggests rewriting for publication, whether by Vittori himself or by his posthumous editor.100 The careful identi‹cation of the elite social standing of many patients (with such terms as nobilissimus, princeps, illustris, or patritius Romanus) serves as a reminder that one purpose served by the compilation of consilia was presumably to emphasize a practitioner’s distinction, as measured by the status of his clientele as well as by his skill. The volume also contains evidence of a different approach to the record of information about individual cases. The “historia of a young man who died of variolae noted by the author when he was practicing medicine under the supervision of Alessandro Petroni[,] . . . proposed as an example of accurately observing the progress of diseases,” is a case history in the full sense of the term.101 It follows the course of the disease in a nineteen-year-old princeps day by day, from onset on Monday, January 24, to the patient’s death on Tuesday, February 9, 1575. The model for the day-by-day narrative of symptoms and treatment is Hippocratic, but the account is enriched with theoretical discussion and consideration of causes; and it concludes with autopsy ‹ndings in a way quite unlike anything in the Hippocratic case histories. Petroni’s systematic teaching on case history was presumably associated with his own collec-

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tion of cases, the publication of which was eagerly expected by Schenck von Grafenberg in 1584.102 In reality, Petroni’s collection seems never to have been published, presumably because of his death in the following year. More advice about case histories is also to be found in the most substantial single item in Vittori’s Consultationes, a treatise addressed to a recent graduate “in which it is fully explained how a young man instructed in the art of medicine should proceed to its actual practice.”103 Vittori began by informing the new graduate, somewhat discouragingly, that the knowledge of the scientia of medicine that he had acquired at the university merely put him in the same position as someone who owned a ›ute without being able to play it.104 The detailed set of recommendations that follow, many of which stress prudence and recognition of medicine’s limitations, lead the young practitioner through proper procedure before, during, and after a visit to a patient. Appropriate preparation beforehand consists of ‹nding out something about the patient’s medical history and looking up likely diseases; during daily visits, the patient must be carefully interrogated and observed.105 Such standard recommendations could no doubt be paralleled in many earlier deontological works. But a separate section advising the neophyte about what to do on returning home reminds him that Hippocrates “observed the events of diseases in many places, and described them rather accurately, as one can see in the histories in the Epidemics.” Hence, Vittori notes, “the physician who, in imitation of this exemplar, wishes to learn the art from things themselves will ‹nd it very useful if he himself has, even from his earliest years in practice, compiled and written down day by day a historia of every patient, containing the symptoms, causes, occasions, and cures of that disease as each occurred.”106 Only such a history—studied in conjunction with appropriate consultation of medical books—would provide the right basis for thoughtful consideration and interpretation of the signs. In Vittori’s case, historiae and evidence are connected in another context. As already noted, the Consultationes contains two items that suggest his involvement as an expert witness in secular court cases. In both instances, his role was to interpret physiological information contained in what he termed the historia ex processu, the story told in the criminal charge.107 But both Vittori himself and the editor of the volume evidently attached far more importance to his testimony in ecclesiastical processes in the great age of CounterReformation saint making. In addition to a reissue of Vittori’s treatise on Filippo Neri’s autopsy, the volume includes his interpretations of a series of miracles of healing attributed to Ignatius Loyola, Francis Xavier, Filippo Neri, and the ‹fteenth-century Franciscan Diego of Alcalá, for each of whom a can-

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onization process was instituted in Vittori’s lifetime.108 In his preface, Mannucci drew attention to the fact that Vittori had been called to testify by the Rota Romana not only in Neri’s but also in other canonization processes, so presumably some of the discussions of miracles are based on his testimony on those occasions.109 In both criminal and canonization testimony, Vittori followed essentially the same procedure, brie›y recounting the historia and then adducing medical authorities to support his interpretation. In a case of suspected poisoning, he marshaled his authorities to demonstrate that death occurred naturally. In the case of the miracles, he followed the same methodology to show, just as he had done with Neri’s autopsy, that the events in question could have happened only supernaturally.110 In both civil and ecclesiastical cases (apart from that of Neri), Vittori’s testimony rested on reported historiae, not his own experience. Whereas the original historia that he wrote of Neri’s autopsy and probably at least some of his consultationes were records of personal experience, the same was clearly not true of his testimony as an expert witness in criminal trials. There is, for example, no suggestion that he himself had attended the presumed victim of poisoning. Still further from his own experience were many of the miracles about which he testi‹ed, since they had supposedly taken place far from Rome and, in some cases, many years earlier. In addition to miraculous cures in Spain, Vittori also discussed miracles of healing reported to have taken place at Malacca at the time when the body of St. Francis Xavier (d. 1552) brie›y rested there and at Goa, where he is entombed. But in both civil and ecclesiastical instances, the historiae in question were, of course, sworn evidence given in a court of law. Vittori’s insistence on a careful, personally observed and recorded history of each patient as a prerequisite for good medical practice was not necessarily incompatible with other criteria for judging the validity of medical historiae in other contexts. Historia had many uses and many meanings for learned physicians in late sixteenth-century Rome. Bacci, Cagnati, and Vittori all gained their initial training in medicine elsewhere, but they applied their medical learning in Rome in ways shaped by the Roman context of teaching, professional activity, and intellectual life. Thus, Bacci and Cagnati were part of a Roman milieu that attached central importance to the study and discussion of that city’s classical and Christian antiquities. From their own medical standpoint, they perceived antiquarian knowledge as fraught with current, practical implications for Roman public health, concerning such mundane matters as the proper use of exercise, the best means of ›ood control, and the right way to make wine. At

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the same time, they participated fully in the contemporary expansion of historia naturalis. Of the physicians discussed in this chapter, only Bacci made substantial contributions to the subject, but Cagnati’s relation with Michele Mercati is surely indicative of strong shared interest. Bacci clearly saw historia naturalis as yet another ‹eld of intellectual inquiry that had implications for human health and well-being. He seems, indeed, to have set out systematically to bring historia naturalis, the human past, and medicine together, choosing repeatedly to write on subjects that involved all three—as he did in De thermis, his treatise on the Tiber, and his book on wine. Methodologically, Bacci seems to have approached historia naturalis, the study of antiquities, fragments of civil history, and medicine in much the same way. He largely compiled from texts, including the texts of recent authors, but added some items from personal informants, noted material evidence, and made signi‹cant use of his own experience. Taken together, the works of this group of physicians provide numerous examples—both medical and natural historical—of the use of the term and concept historia in the sense of a brief, factual narrative or description. But Cagnati and Vittori were especially concerned with historia in a very speci‹c sense: the record of human disease in Rome. Both proclaimed their allegiance to the Hippocratic Epidemics, but they put the Hippocratic model into practice so differently as to preclude easy generalizations about the in›uence of the Epidemics on empiricism in early modern medicine. Cagnati’s endeavors to use compilation as a basis for systematic analysis and his interest in historical chronology have very little in common with Vittori’s analyses of historiae of individual patients, criminal cases, or miracles. Though historiae were, increasingly, evidence, distinctions between ‹rsthand and reported evidence had by no means been established, and “empiricism” might still rest on textual sources. But in all these instances, the record of the human past was in one way or another something with which this group of medical practitioners was deeply concerned.

Chapter Six

VIENNA: PHYSICIAN HISTORIANS AND ANTIQUARIES IN COURT AND UNIVERSITY

W

olfgang Lazius—proli‹c author of works on the civil history, the chorography, the antiquities, and the noble families of his native Austria; indefatigable collector of medieval historical documents; and professor of medicine in the University of Vienna—habitually identi‹ed himself on his title pages as “medicus et historicus.”1 Lazius’s self-identi‹cation introduces a relation of Renaissance history and medicine very different from those discussed in the previous chapter. Almost all the works by physician authors presented in chapter 5, whatever their historical or antiquarian content, also have some bearing on medicine or health, and all were the work of men who devoted themselves to medicine as a primary occupation throughout their careers. By contrast, Lazius is one of the considerable number of ‹fteenth- to seventeenth-century physicians who devoted a very large part of their energies to writing on historical or antiquarian topics unrelated to medicine—to civil history (that is, the history of rulers, politics, and wars), the history of institutions, or general ethnographic history of peoples. To be sure, Lazius is not a typical representative of this group: as will become apparent, he stands out both for the totality of his commitment to history and the extravagance of some of his claims. Nor is the objective of this chapter and the following one to give a full account of all the literature on general history and antiquities 194

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produced by Renaissance and early modern physicians—a task that would require a volume in itself, as the bio-bibliographies of physicians in some contemporary reference works testify.2 Rather, my objectives are (1) to suggest some of the professional and social contexts and some of the practical and intellectual motivations that led medical men to devote themselves to such endeavors and (2) to draw attention to the participation of medically trained authors in the Renaissance and early modern development of history as a discipline. When Renaissance physician historians are remembered, it is usually either as physicians or as historians, a situation that has often obscured their dual involvement in medicine and history. Alessandro Benedetti and Paolo Giovio are cases in point. Benedetti’s reputation has been chie›y among historians of medicine and as a writer on anatomy, Giovio’s as a political historian. However, recent studies have called attention to the full range of their activities, including Benedetti in the role of historian and antiquary and Giovio’s training and early career as a physician.3 For many other physician historians, the balance between their medical and their historical or antiquarian interests and activities has been much less thoroughly explored. But as the case of medical antiquarianism in Rome has just suggested, speci‹c professional and social contexts surely helped to direct the historical or antiquarian interests of medical men. Certainly Vienna, where a series of physicians took a prominent and of‹cially recognized part in court-centered historical culture for three generations, was such an environment. A strong and enduring interest in humanist history writing emerged at the University of Vienna and the Habsburg court in the late ‹fteenth and early sixteenth centuries, when the ideals of Conrad Celtis and the patronage of Maximilian I combined to focus historical attention on the German lands and on the medieval, imperial, and dynastic past. Thereafter, Johannes Cuspinianus (1473–1529), Wolfgang Lazius (1514–65), and Joannes Sambucus (1531–84) each in turn combined a senior medical position—at the university, at the Habsburg court, or both—with intellectual interests and writings primarily directed toward civil history, antiquities, and humanistic studies rather than medicine. Abundant evidence testi‹es that both the medical and the historical and humanistic activities of these men were prized by, successively, Maximilian I, Ferdinand I, and Maximilian II and, indeed, that these rulers or their advisers considered this combination of roles and interests entirely compatible. Cuspinianus, a poet, humanist, and—for a time—professor and practitioner of medicine, served the Habsburg ruler in a diplomatic capacity before turning to history writing. In the next generation, Laz-

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ius, who enjoyed the patronage of Ferdinand I, was a professor of medicine at the University of Vienna and imperial physician for more than twenty years, while simultaneously holding the of‹cial, salaried position of imperial historicus for much of that time. The Hungarian medical practitioner and humanist Sambucus (János Zsámboki), who was appointed historicus in 1564, held a simultaneous appointment as a court physician. Across the century spanned by the lives of these three men, humanistic learning remained the primary quali‹cation for writing history—and for appointment as an of‹cial historiographer. Of the two secular learned professions, medicine was less obviously connected than law with government and political institutions and hence with civil history. Yet not only the personal interests, experience, and ambition of individuals but also their social and intellectual environment encouraged the writing of civil histories by sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century physicians. In intellectual terms, university-educated physicians possessed the primary quali‹cation of general humanistic learning and rhetorical skill. Perhaps, too, as Jacob Soll has argued, some early modern physicians saw the political problems of their own day in terms of the ancient metaphor of the body politic.4 Moreover, chorography, ethnography, and climate theory, topics often interwoven with civil history and the history of peoples, all drew on types of natural knowledge closely associated with medicine. Indeed, in some contexts, natural history (which retained close relations with medicine throughout the sixteenth century) and civil history could intersect, as Laurent Pinon has demonstrated in the case of Renaissance discussions of the animals described in Caesar’s De bello gallico.5 Perhaps most important, physicians were molded in a branch of learning that—like history itself—valued narrative, description, and the particular, as well as observation and the record of experience, and taught the interpretation of both exempla and signs.6 Among external circumstances that encouraged physicians to write histories, one very practical inducement was appointment as an of‹cial historiographer. In addition to the physicians just named, other medical men who received or were offered appointments of this type included Hartman Schedel, Hadrianus Junius, and Lodovico Settala (all mentioned earlier in this book). But more generally, in Italy, the German lands, and elsewhere, close connections often existed between princely courts and local universities. Learned physicians frequently combined a professorship with personal attendance on a ruler. In such circumstances, some of them were drawn into the world of the court and functioned as advisers to rulers, service that might lead to historical writing in the dynastic interest. One of many possible examples

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is provided by Baccio Baldini, whose career ‹rst as a professor of medical theory at the University of Pisa and then as a ducal physician, court humanist, and trusted adviser at the court of Cosimo I in Florence has already been described in chapter 2. It seems likely that Baldini’s vernacular rhetorical and biographical works—which included orations in praise of Cosimo I and a life of that ruler—as well as his medical learning helped his success at court and perhaps also his prolonged tenure as ducal physician and protomedico.7 As this example suggests, there were some circumstances in which a physician’s turn to history and biography not only might be compatible with but might actually advance his medical career. Nevertheless, it is impossible to generalize about the effect that writing on historical (or other) topics outside medicine had on early modern medical careers. As has already become apparent, physician historians include some authors who abandoned medicine in favor of history, others who began by writing on historical topics but later published medical or scienti‹c works, and yet others who combined some form of medical and historical activity throughout a professional lifetime. Even without the support of a princely ruler, regional or civic patriotism and patronage could be powerful motivations for historical writing. In this category clearly belong Goropius’s work on Antwerp and Chif›et’s on Burgundy (both already encountered in chapter 1 of the present study). Yet another physician with an intense commitment to local history was Girolamo Rossi (1539–1607), who drew extensively on documentary sources from papal archives as well as on earlier local compilations for his de‹nitive history of his native Ravenna. Pierre Borel (1620?–71) ended his career as a royal physician in Paris and was the author of a biography of Descartes as well as medical works. But it was presumably attachment to his native Provence that led this Montpellier graduate to devote his ‹rst book to the antiquities, history, and natural history of Castres—his hometown—and its vicinity and to compile a dictionary of Old French terms with special attention to the langue d’oc. Borel placed himself consciously in a line of medical local historians: “If you think it strange that a doctor should undertake this work, know that Cardano, Goropius Becanus, and Achilles Gasser, very famous physicians, did the same for Milan, Antwerp, and Augsburg.”8 Local attachments of a different kind no doubt also lay behind many institutional histories; such is clearly the case, for example, with Dr. John Caius’s history of Cambridge University and, no doubt, with Gabriel Naudé’s history of the Paris medical faculty, both noted in chapter 3. In different ways, all these general considerations—the in›uences of humanistic and medical education, patronage, and local or regional attachment and interests—apply to the historical interests of Cus-

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pinianus, Lazius, and Sambucus. But it is now time to turn speci‹cally to the context of Vienna and to their individual endeavors.

cuspinianus: medicine, humanism, and history in early sixteenth-century vienna Cuspinianus’s principal works—the Caesares, a history of the Roman emperors and their German successors, and the Consules, a history of the Roman consuls—were ‹rst published in the middle years of the sixteenth century, more than a decade after their author’s death.9 But they are products of an early sixteenth-century con›uence of interests and relations—German humanism, Habsburg concern for dynastic genealogy, and close ties between court and university—that at Vienna fostered a new attention to history, particularly the history of the Roman Empire and its German successor and of the German lands. In this setting, Cuspinianus achieved a notable combination of medicine, civil history, and royal service that in some respects pre‹gures the career pattern later followed by Lazius. After some earlier studies in arts at the University of Leipzig, Johann Spiessheimer, who adopted the humanist name of Cuspinianus, came to Vienna in 1492.10 There, in 1493, at the age of twenty, he received the poet’s laurel crown from the young Emperor Maximilian I. In the following year, Cuspinianus enrolled in the medical faculty of the University of Vienna, receiving his doctorate in medicine in 1499. From 1500 until 1510, he taught in the medical faculty, built up a medical practice, and was active in university affairs; he was elected rector of the university in 1500 and was four times dean of the medical faculty.11 Cuspinianus’s recognition as a humanist poet and his studies and teaching in the medical faculty took place in the context of an important phase of expansion and revival of the University of Vienna. Founded in 1365 on the model of Paris, Vienna had also early been exposed to other in›uences, notably contacts with the north Italian universities, especially Padua and Bologna.12 In the late fourteenth and ‹fteenth centuries, professors of arts, medicine, law, and theology included both Viennese who had obtained degrees in Italy and a number of Italians.13 By the mid-‹fteenth century, the university was primarily a center of late scholastic theology, but some university masters and members of local religious communities also pursued mathematical and humanistic studies. Indeed, in the 1440s, Aeneas Silvius Piccolomini (the future Pope Pius II), who had an important in›uence on German humanism, took part in a disputation at the university at which he gave an

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oration defending the moral and educational value of history and poetry.14 The university later suffered under the occupation of Vienna by the forces of Matthias Corvinus, king of Hungary (1485–90), and its enrollment fell. But in the two or three decades thereafter, the university and, in particular, humanists associated with it ›ourished as at no other time, under the patronage of Frederick III and—much more—his successor (from 1493) Maximilian I. Both the court and the university were also centers of astrological and medical learning, disciplines taught and practiced in close conjunction with one another. Astrology, like medicine, could have a strong historical component, as was the case in its practice by Joseph Grünpeck, one of the recipients of Maximilian’s patronage.15 At Vienna, the various motivations favoring historical and geographical studies received a new impetus in 1497, with the appointment of Conrad Celtis—with whom Cuspinianus had previously been in contact—as the university’s lecturer in poetry and rhetoric. The myths and history of the Holy Roman Empire, resentment at Italian slurs on northern “barbarians,” fantasies about the origins of the German people, the reception of Tacitus, and Aeneas Sylvius’s writings on Germany all helped to turn the attention of German humanists to German history, chorography, and ethnography.16 But Celtis played an exceptionally important role in further stimulating these interests. In a celebrated oration delivered at the University of Ingolstadt in 1492, he set forth a program for the reform of learning in which the history and geography of Germany occupied a prominent place. Subsequently, he developed an ambitious plan for a Germania illustrata—a comprehensive historical and geographical description of Germany modeled on the Italia illustrata of Flavio Biondo. The Germania illustrata was never completed, but Celtis’s call to other humanists to contribute to this project inspired a number of historical endeavors. With his pioneering edition of the writings of Hroswitha of Gandersheim, Celtis also contributed to the search for manuscript evidence for medieval German accomplishments, while his own works (including his poetry) incorporated descriptions of natural features, cities, and peoples seen in his travels through the German lands. At Vienna, students or associates of Celtis who went on to gain renown for historical or chorographical writings included, in addition to Cuspinianus, Johannes Aventinus and the physician and future Reformer Joachim Vadianus.17 Celtis owed his appointment to Vienna to Maximilian I, who sponsored the historical endeavors of numerous humanists. In so doing, Maximilian’s main goal seems to have been to establish and disseminate an ever-expanding dynastic and imperial genealogy that linked the Habsburgs to earlier German

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rulers, to imperial Rome, and to classical and biblical origin myths.18 But the welcome that Celtis received (as well as the resentment he aroused in scholastic and monastic circles) was not solely due to imperial patronage. By the time of his arrival in Vienna, a substantial segment of the university—including jurists, physicians, and mathematicians as well as members of the arts faculty—supported humanism and educational reform and formed a community of enthusiasts for Celtis’s program. From this group Celtis drew the members of a humanist society, the Sodalitas Danubiana, which he formed shortly after arriving in Vienna and in which Cuspinianus played such a leading role that the society held its meetings in Cuspinianus’s house.19 In this milieu, Cuspinianus presented himself as “physician and poet” (medicus et poeta), adopting and inscribing on many of his books the monograph CMP, standing for “Cuspinianus Medicus Poeta.”20 The breadth of his interests and the range of his contacts were wide indeed. He was a reader of Ficino’s commentaries on Plato, a knowledgeable astrologer, and a connoisseur of art. The roster of his friends, acquaintances, and correspondents included many of the most important cultural innovators of his day—among them Johannes Trithemius, Conrad Celtis, Lucas Cranach, and Aldus Manutius.21 A fellow humanist recorded his awe at the extent and diversity of Cuspinianus’s collection of manuscripts, which contained many “of very ancient authors that have scarcely ever been printed,” coins, medals, paintings, sculptures, and ancient inscriptions.22 But early in his career, one predominant area of interest emerged. Like so many other medical students, Cuspinianus gave lectures in arts while he pursued his medical studies, although (somewhat less usual) his lectureship was “in poetry.” One of the ‹rst texts on which he lectured was the didactic poem De situ orbis of Dionysius Alexandrinus in Priscian’s Latin translation—a choice that suggests that his attention, like that of other German humanists, had already turned in the direction of history and cosmography. He lectured a second time on the same work after he had graduated in medicine, this time assuring his audience of medical students that knowledge of geography was necessary for all educated people, whether they were studying philosophy, poetry, or theology.23 At the same time, Cuspinianus was actively involved in medical learning. Though his letter to Aldus of 1502 discussed his cosmographical interests, it also requested medical books (Dioscorides’ Materia medica and the Aphorisms of Hippocrates).24 A medical miscellany that he assembled, perhaps around 1506,25 reveals an approach to medicine strongly in›uenced by humanistic tastes and values. The contents include not just some standard medical books (e.g., the Aphorisms of Hippocrates) but also much less famil-

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iar late ancient and early medieval medical texts, mixed with texts on horticulture and items in verse.26 A section in his own hand—apparently material used in his lectures—shows his interest in Hippocratic material that was not part of the standard school curriculum but that attracted attention among humanist physicians: the pseudepigrapha, the Oath, and biographical information about Hippocrates. But from the standpoint of the present work, the most illuminating aspect of this collection is the presence of a life of Hippocrates composed by Cuspinianus. It is part of the prefatory material to his lecture on one of the pseudepigrapha, prefatory material in which Cuspinianus also included the text of the Oath and a poem recounting the story of Hippocrates’ diagnosis of the lovesickness of King Perdiccas.27 From this life, it is easy to see both how the historical interests that Cuspinianus had acquired in the course of his studies in poetry and rhetoric found expression within medicine and how his medical learning could have helped him to develop the methodology used in his civil histories. The life mainly follows the Soranian life but draws on other doxographic sources to ›esh out the genealogy of Hippocrates and to list notable philosophers who were his contemporaries; it concludes with a collection of moralizing maxims attributed to him. But Cuspinianus also drew the attention of his readers particularly to the Oath, provided a fairly full list of Hippocratic works, and introduced some notes of historical criticism. He acknowledged that perhaps not everything in the life was true and pointed out that the story of the wise physician’s diagnosis of a ruler’s lovesickness was told of Erasistratus and Antiochus as well as Hippocrates and Perdiccas.28 The combination of medical, natural, and humanistic interests persisted for a few more years, as displayed in his work on the poem on gemstones by the early twelfth-century author Marbode of Rennes. Early in 1511, Cuspinianus published the ‹rst printed edition of Marbode’s Libellus de lapide, presumably for student use in connection with his own lectures on that text. In his preface to the edition, he insisted on the usefulness of the work, citing a row of medical authorities—“Solinus, Dioscorides, Galen, Avicenna, Serapion”—all of whom testi‹ed to the medicinal virtues of precious stones.29 Cuspinianus’s lectures supplemented Marbode’s verses on sixty varieties of gemstone with additional information on stones and minerals taken chie›y from Pliny, Albertus Magnus, and—as regards medicinal properties—the medical authors just mentioned, together with some supposedly historical anecdotes. On a number of occasions, Cuspinianus criticized the medieval German Albertus, but he reserved his severest denunciations for a work on gems by an Italian medical author contemporary with himself, the Speculum

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lapidum of the Pisan professor Camillo Leonardi. In addition to objecting to Leonardi’s excessive dependence on Albertus and ignorance of Greek, Cuspinianus also repudiated talismans and inscribed gems (used for magical purposes), described at length in Leonardi’s work.30 But by 1510, Cuspinianus’s career was already taking a different turn, for Maximilian called on him for political and diplomatic service. For years thereafter, he traveled back and forth to Buda in the capacity of imperial “orator,” charged with negotiating on behalf of Habsburg interests at the Hungarian court. He was closely involved in the diplomacy leading to the double marriage of Maximilian’s granddaughter Maria to Louis the son of Ladislas, king of Hungary and Bohemia, and of Maximilian’s grandson Ferdinand to Ladislas’s daughter Anna. In addition to participating in the negotiations, Cuspinianus left his own record of the ceremonial meeting of three rulers— Ladislas of Hungary and Bohemia, Sigismund of Poland, and Maximilian— held in Vienna in 1515 to ‹nalize these arrangements.31 It was no doubt Cuspinianus’s rhetorical, rather than his medical, skills that led to his choice for such work. Nonetheless, the reliance of rulers on men with medical training as trusted advisers or emissaries was by no means unusual in the medieval and early modern world (in some cases perhaps in part because of the intimacy of the physician-patient relationship). Thus, in the second half of the century, Maximilian II relied heavily on Johann Crato von Krafftheim for various services and for advice that went far beyond the medical, just as his predecessors had on Cuspinianus for diplomatic service and on Wolfgang Lazius as of‹cial historian.32 Cuspinianus’s diplomatic activities ended his medical practice and long delayed the completion of the Caesares and the Consules, both planned early in his career. But his career in royal service also shaped and strengthened his historical interests and gave him access to new sources of historical information—notably manuscripts from the famous collection assembled by Matthias Corvinus at Buda.33 For the Consules, he edited an epitome of Roman history by Sextus Rufus and the Chronica of Cassiodorus (a work written to celebrate the consulship of Theodoric by listing all the Roman consuls) and provided both with his own commentary, based mostly on readings in ancient historians. He wrote feelingly of his labors in assembling this material. I had only one manuscript of Cassiodorus, which my Stabius, a man of the most acute intelligence, provided for me: and it was mutilated in many places and almost erased. I also had [a list of] the consuls from some unknown author, which at length I found, and a certain very

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Fig. 6. The physician, poet, and historian Johannes Cuspinianus as depicted in Johannes Sambucus’s Veterum aliquot ac recentium medicorum philosophorumque icones ([Leiden], 1603), no. 50. The work was originally published in 1574. In the same work, Sambucus also included portraits of Hadrianus Junius and Wolfgang Lazius, in both cases noting and commending their historical work. Here, he salutes Cuspinianus as “the Phoebus of medicine and a second Livy.” (Courtesy of the New York Academy of Medicine Library.)

ancient chronicle, in which there was also a list of consuls. I brought all these together, and I added besides without prejudice whatever I found in Pliny, Livy, Diodorus Siculus, Dionysius, Orosius, Eutropius, Johannes Monachus, Jordanus, Bede; as well as what I found in civil law and what I read in inscriptions and very old monuments. Yet he also knew that his results—and perhaps his method—might leave room for improvement: “I have only two eyes, with which I have investigated

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these things. You, oh reader, also add your labor to this work of mine, so that it may be improved. Perhaps you will see many things that escaped me.”34 As already noted, Cuspinianus’s Consules was not published until 1553, more than twenty years after the author’s death. In the meantime, in 1546–47, the inscribed Fasti Capitolini were discovered in Rome. The publication and exposition of important new material evidence for Roman chronology and consular history by Sigonio and other scholars in Rome soon overshadowed Cuspinianus’s synthesis from literary sources.35 The most noteworthy feature of Cuspinianus’s work as a historian was probably his diligence in searching out sources for the Caesares, a collection of biographies of rulers from Julius Caesar to Cuspinianus’s patron Maximilian I. It opens with a brief summary of ancient debates about the best form of government and the rise of the Roman Empire. It concludes with a biography of Maximilian that is a paean of praise to Cuspinianus’s patron (praise based, as Cuspinianus reminded the reader, on close personal knowledge and long service); Cuspinianus emphasized the emperor’s passion for genealogy but also claimed a place for medicine among Maximilian’s intellectual interests.36 In the intervening six hundred pages, the work’s German imperial bent emerges in strong defense of the proposition that Charlemagne, as a Frank, was essentially German and, consequently, that the Roman Empire had never passed to the ancestors of the French, as well as in sharp attacks on the moral failings of popes who opposed the medieval emperors. Cuspinianus maintained: “Those people who hand down that the empire was passed from the Greeks to the Gauls and from the Gauls to the Germans are ineptly and excessively raving. For the Gauls never obtained the empire but it was given to the Franks, and ‹rst of all to Charlemagne the Frank, who was never a Gaul but a Frank and born in that part of France where Germans always dwelt.” Moving further forward in medieval history, Cuspinianus characterized Pope Gregory IX and Frederick II as follows: “[Gregory] did many and serious things unworthy for a pope and vicar of Christ. While the emperor with his sword protected and defended the ›ock of Christ lest they be destroyed by the wolf, the pope ›eeced, ›ayed, and bloodily devoured [them].”37 But Cuspinianus’s Caesares is not limited to the ancient Roman emperors and the German successors of imperial Rome. He included as well medieval Byzantine and recent Ottoman rulers. Moreover, he provided a detailed list of sources for each of his biographies. For the Roman section, he was able to draw on (and doubtless modeled himself on) standard ancient sources. For the medieval German, Byzantine, and Ottoman sections, he was obliged to assemble and work with very different material. He collected manuscripts of

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numerous German chroniclers and annals; in fact, he was responsible for the ‹rst edition of one of his principal (and best) sources, the historical works of Otto of Freising. In the dedicatory letter prefaced to the edition of Otto of Freising, Cuspinianus proclaimed the forthcoming publication of other “very noble works,” including the sixth-century history of the Goths by Jordanes; and he insisted that notwithstanding humanist disdain for medieval Latinity, Otto and other medieval historians often provided more truthful information than did histories in which Latin eloquence seemed to be the main criterion.38 For the medieval Byzantine rulers, he made heavy use of the twelfth-century chronicle of John Zonaras, a copy of which he found in the royal collection at Buda. The Corvinus library was very well known to Viennese humanists, and Cuspinianus was by no means the only one who played a part in its dispersal. He enlisted the support of Maximilian to bring the Zonaras manuscript back to Vienna and hoped to arrange for its translation into Latin.39 In addition to accounts of rulers and their reigns (mostly devoted, like those in the other sections, to warfare and genealogy), the Ottoman section of the Caesares includes a description of Turkish religion and society. It recounts the origins of Islam (with much prejudice), provides a relatively unbiased description of some Muslim religious and social practices (prayer ‹ve times a day, dietary practices, veiling of women), and describes some conditions under Ottoman rule in southeastern Europe (conversions to Islam, the recruitment of janissaries). For this part of the work, Cuspinianus seems to have drawn substantially on the letters of Francesco Filelfo, portions of Aeneas Sylvius Piccolomini’s account of the reign of Frederick III, and a captivity narrative. Regarding the last, he explained, “I found a little work by a certain brother . . . who, having been taken captive as a boy of sixteen at the time after the death of Emperor Sigismund when Sultan Murad invaded Hungary [that is, in the early 1440s], lived as a slave in Turkey for twenty-two years, learning all their rites and way of life; once he was set free he became a monk and wrote a book about their rites.”40 Cuspinianus had high expectations for the Caesares; he adorned each imperial biography with an appropriate verse (a quatrain from Ausonius for each early emperor) and hoped to get Dürer to provide the rulers’ portraits.41 But by the last years of his life, when he ‹nally had time to bring the Caesares near completion, the world was changing. The death of Maximilian, further advances of the Turks into Hungary, and the outbreak of religious strife in the German lands all had a severe impact on Viennese humanist culture. Among Cuspinianus’s last works was an urgent exhortation to the princes of Germany to resist the Turks. Of the Caesares, he managed to issue only a table of

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emperors and other rulers as a foretaste of the complete work, “which please God,” he wrote, “will soon appear.”42 He died in 1529, shortly before the Turks besieged Vienna. By the time Cuspinianus’s two major historical works ‹nally appeared in print, the religious environment was more polarized than in his day. Both his own antipapal remarks and some inserted by his editors limited the in›uence of his works.43 Nevertheless, it is hard to avoid the impression that Cuspinianus and the early sixteenth-century humanist circle at Vienna to which he belonged had a strong, if not always fully acknowledged, in›uence on the combination of medicine and history as it developed in the hands of Wolfgang Lazius.

lazius: medicine, history, and antiquarianism at midcentury Like Cuspinianus, Lazius combined a professorship in medicine at the University of Vienna with historical and antiquarian studies, but he did so in a very different social and intellectual context. Cuspinianus began his professorial career at a time when humanistic studies were exceptionally ›ourishing in Vienna, whereas Lazius was at work during a period of great stress for the city and its rulers, which also strongly affected intellectual life. From the 1520s until midcentury, a series of external and internal crises shook the city and the university alike: plague, the Turkish threat, a drastic decline in student enrollment, and religious controversy consequent to the rapid spread of Reformed religion in Vienna—countered by, in 1550, the arrival of the Jesuits.44 Lazius’s patron Ferdinand I made a number of not wholly successful efforts both to repress religious dissent and to revive the university. He provided the university with reform statutes in 1533 and 1537, but revival seems to have really begun only following his third and more sweeping reform of 1554. The 1554 statute, in a fashion typical of princely attention to universities in this period, simultaneously reorganized the institution, brought it more closely under state control, and emphasized the university’s service to the state.45 But as evidence for continuing Habsburg interest, in good times and bad, in the uses of historical learning, one provision of the 1537 statute is worthy of note. It required the appointment of a professor of history who was charged not only with lecturing on “the best and most worthwhile ancient historians” but also with writing “annals of his own time so that the history of our times will also be known to those who come after.” In the 1554 statute, the requirement to write contemporary history was dropped, the title of the chair changed to lit-

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erarum politicarum professor, and the ‹eld now described as conjoining history and poetry.46 In a funeral oration for Lazius delivered on June 22, 1565, Diomedes Cornarius described his late colleague as an outstanding historian and very faithful counselor of the late emperor Ferdinand, a very collegial member of the medical faculty, and a professor of practical medicine.47 If this sequence is taken to indicate a descending order of importance, it accurately re›ects the balance between these occupations in Lazius’s written output, though not necessarily in his daily activities. The son of a physician and a professor of medicine, Lazius graduated in medicine from the University of Ingolstadt in 1538. After a brief period of service as a military doctor during a campaign against the Turks in Hungary, he joined the medical faculty of the University of Vienna, where he was a professor for more than twenty years. Early in his career, he was for a time responsible for anatomical demonstrations; later, he taught—at different times—both medical theory and medical practice, ‹nally becoming professor primarius and, in the early 1560s, superintendent of the entire university.48 In the 1540s and 1550s, he also served many times as dean of the medical faculty, a one-semester position that included responsibility for the Acta, or minutes, of the faculty.49 Notwithstanding Cornarius’s encomium to Lazius’s collegiality, Lazius’s strong support of the Catholic cause involved him in bitter disputes with some fellow faculty members.50 Relatively little is known of Lazius’s medical practice, but if Cornarius is to be believed, he treated “many patients.”51 Other medical duties included inspection of a hospital and, in 1551, the position of magister sanitatis of Vienna during a plague outbreak. Ferdinand I appointed Lazius as his personal physician in 1548, at about the same time as he made him his of‹cial historiographer.52 Despite this lifelong involvement in medical studies, teaching, and practice, Lazius left almost no medical writings (I have found one recipe for a medicine “for phlegm” and one graduation oration on the dignity and history of medicine).53 Instead, Lazius dedicated himself to historical research and writing almost throughout his career. In the early 1540s, he was already collecting manuscripts and inscriptions and writing accounts of the antiquities and history of Transylvania, Hungary, and parts of Austria.54 Subsequently, he amply ful‹lled his responsibilities as imperial historicus—and earned an additional salary greater than his professorial stipend55—by copious production of historical, antiquarian, and religious works. His historical interests even spilled over into his administrative record keeping for the medical faculty. In 1556, during one of his terms as dean of the faculty, he enlivened the

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faculty Acta—usually ‹lled with institutional minutiae about expenses and receipts, promotions, and complaints—by inserting a spirited account of the latest campaign against the Turks in Hungary.56 Lazius’s single-minded dedication of his written work to history and antiquities was greater than that of either Cuspinianus or, later, Sambucus, both of whom wrote or edited not only some medical as well as historical works but also works in other genres. In the case of Lazius, his commitment may have been to some extent fostered by the university conditions described earlier. Lack of student enrollment in medicine, disputes with academic colleagues over religion, and the disposition of Ferdinand I to treat the university as a source of men of learning for his court and administration could all have discouraged Lazius from attention to medical teaching and encouraged his concentration on other interests.57 But in one important respect, the situation was hardly different from that at the beginning of the century. At the court of Ferdinand as at that of Maximilian, history writing was viewed as a valuable contribution to royal service. Yet although Maximilian had relied on the physician, poet, and historian Cuspinianus for diplomatic tasks, Lazius was the ‹rst physician at Vienna to hold an of‹cial appointment as court historicus. Before Lazius, the post of court historian went to literary humanists and jurists: under Maximilian I, the poet, mathematician, and astrologer Johannes Stabius (ca. 1460–1522) and the jurist Jakob Mennel (1460–1526); under Ferdinand, the poet, rhetorician, and jurist Caspar Ursinus Velius (1493–1539).58 But although Lazius’s dif‹culties at the university and the pull of court patronage very likely played a role in con‹rming his dedication to history, his initial interest in the subject antedated both, for he was already collecting antiquities and historical information well before either his involvement in religious controversy or his court appointment. In addition, intellectual contacts with other humanist antiquaries and historians clearly played a part in shaping his historical pursuits. One important in›uence was the scholar of German antiquity Beatus Rhenanus, whose Rerum Germanicarum libri III had appeared in 1531. Lazius gratefully described Beatus Rhenanus as his preceptor and may have been in correspondence with him as early as 1538.59 Writing to Beatus in 1545, Lazius asserted that his own motivation for historical work was solely to “establish the annals of our country, [now] wrapped in so much confusion, on foundations of truth.”60 Another historian whose work Lazius approved—and one with whom he was personally friendly—was the Habsburg diplomat and historian of Muscovy Sigmund von Herberstein (1486–1566). Herberstein’s Rerum Moscoviticarum commentarii, written after

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his return from two trips to Muscovy in the service of Maximilian I, became one of the works on Russia most widely read in early modern Europe. Lazius helped to ensure its international audience by recommending the second edition to Oporinus for publication. Herberstein may have shared a common interest in prophecy as well as history with Lazius, as he passed on to Lazius a transcript of a prophecy by the early fourteenth-century Franciscan John of Rupescissa.61 Other relations with fellow antiquaries or historians involved not discipleship or friendship but bitter rivalry, perhaps itself a stimulus to further endeavor. Thus, the same letter to Beatus Rhenanus mentioned earlier reports in detail a quarrel with Johann Ludwig Brassicanus over the identi‹cation of place-names mentioned by ancient authors. Lazius indignantly recounted how, “at a public dinner” given by a potential patron, Brassicanus, a professor of canon law at Vienna who had apparently earlier also at one time held the title of court historiographer, had called Lazius’s arguments “stupid and absurd” and snickered at him.62 It is tempting to infer that the argument carried an overtone of rival claims by law and medicine to historical expertise, although this con›ict is not explicitly voiced. Perhaps something of the same tension emerges in Lazius’s cautious remarks on the work of his immediate predecessor as court historian, the jurist Caspar Ursinus Velius.63 In the late 1550s, Lazius was embroiled in a row with the Italian antiquary and artist Jacopo Strada (who also enjoyed Ferdinand’s patronage), because Strada had accused Lazius of incompetence in numismatics. The accusation was a serious one: numismatics was a central area of investigation for Renaissance antiquaries and a ‹eld in which Strada’s expertise was celebrated throughout Europe. As these episodes suggest, Lazius’s critics included historians and antiquaries of his own day. From his own time until the present, his writings have received, at best, mixed reviews, especially as regards his treatment of antiquity, although his tireless energy and the importance he attached to archaeological, archival, and medieval manuscript sources inspire some respect.64 Lazius’s large output of both antiquarian description and historical narrative (often intermingled in the same work) suggests that, at least in his case, no sharp distinction can easily be drawn between these two types of endeavor. In addition to numerous printed works, mostly on the early history and chorography of Austria and neighboring lands, he left behind him a mass of frequently overlapping and repetitive manuscripts intended to form part of a vast, never-‹nished history of these regions from ancient times to his own day.65 Something of Lazius’s own vision of what he ultimately planned to title

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his “Decades rerum austriacarum” emerges from the preface to an epitome of the project, which he offered to Ferdinand for New Year’s 1546, presumably in the hope of acquiring Ferdinand’s patronage for the whole undertaking. In it, Lazius aligned himself with historians—from Livy to Aeneas Sylvius Piccolomini—patronized both by Ferdinand’s supposed Julio-Claudian “ancestors” and by his immediate Habsburg predecessors. He announced that he had taken it on himself to establish the history of Austria on true foundations, not in the mythmaking fashion of earlier chroniclers, but according to the historical standards of the best of the ancient Greeks and Romans. He noted that he would write in plain language, always paying due adherence to the ‹rst rule of history: to say nothing false and to omit nothing true. Moreover, he assured his readers that his account would be comprehensive: it would include descriptions of geography and natural features and the origins of the inhabitants, as well as both religious and secular history, especially that of regions associated with origins of the Habsburgs. He also pointed out that he had already expended a great deal of time, effort, and his own resources in collecting materials.66 As the chronological sweep of this project suggests, Lazius’s view of history, far from being con‹ned to the ancient past, extended to his own time. (Indeed, it extended forward into the future, since he published a collection of prophecies that he interpreted as showing that Charles V was the destined ruler who would restore peace and overthrow the Turks.67) A substantial part of his historical output took the form of detailed narratives about the major political events and personalities of central and eastern Europe in his lifetime. They included accounts of the Schmalkaldic War of 1546–47, of the history of Hungary from 1539 to 1552, and of Ferdinand’s efforts in 1559–60 to obtain the crown of Bohemia for his son Maximilian II, followed by the latter’s triple coronation at Frankfurt, Prague, and Pressburg and ceremonial entry into Vienna.68 Lazius was at his best as a historian when he wrote of events of which he had ‹rsthand knowledge, notably the military campaign in which he took part as an army doctor. This was the disastrously unsuccessful Habsburg siege of Buda in 1540–41, the prelude to centuries of direct Turkish rule over central Hungary. Following the Turkish victory at the Battle of Mohacs in 1526, Hungary was divided between János Zápolya, who ruled as a client of the sultan, and Ferdinand I. In 1538, Ferdinand and Zápolya signed the Treaty of Varad, which stipulated that on the death of Zápolya (who at the time was still unmarried and childless), Ferdinand should inherit his part of the kingdom. But Zápolya subsequently married, and when he died in 1540, he left an infant

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son as his heir. Ferdinand nevertheless tried to enforce the treaty and claim his inheritance, by sending an expedition to besiege Buda. The Habsburg forces were repelled when Bishop George Martinuzzi (Frater György), who advised Zápolya’s widow, successfully appealed for Turkish assistance.69 Lazius’s account of this episode forms book 2 of his history of recent events in Hungary (a work in four books, preceded by a preface briskly summarizing Hungarian history from antiquity to 1538). In dealing with this campaign, Lazius was confronted with the need to explain an overwhelming defeat. In so doing, he showed himself capable of writing a clear narrative in vigorous, opinionated prose enriched by observations and analysis that drew on his medical expertise—qualities entirely uncharacteristic of much of his other historical writing.70 According to Lazius, responsibility for the failure of the siege of Buda lay at least partly with the commander of the Habsburg forces, Wilhelm von Roggendorf, whose effectiveness was limited by his advanced age, poor physical health, mental agitation, and favoritism toward his incompetent son. By July, the soldiers were “openly blaming their general for the long duration of the war and accusing him not only of avarice but of imprudence and stupidity.”71 Subsequently, Roggendorf’s arm was broken by a bullet. Despite the best efforts of Lazius and other medici et chirurgi, the fracture failed to heal, bringing on a fever from which the general seems never to have fully recovered (he died shortly after the end of the campaign). But neither Roggendorf’s limitations, nor the almost impregnable ramparts of Buda, nor even the resistance of the defenders of the city aided by Turkish troops was the most serious problem. Disease spread through the camp for reasons that Lazius analyzed in the light of both Hippocratic environmentalism and his awareness of contagion. He noted that the camp was too lightly constructed and very badly situated, as the soldiers had to get their drinking water from the same body of water in which the entrails of butchered animals were cleaned. Moreover, they had to eat much of the meat only half cooked, for lack of fuel. Unclean water and uncooked food weakened the soldiers’ bodies, making them susceptible to diseases, and contagion spread, taking away more men than had enemy action.72 To make matters worse, the German troops avoided the bad water by overindulging in Hungarian wine, with the result that they were subject to fevers and wasting. The medical personnel were few and badly trained, and the supply of medicines was inadequate. The sight of daily funerals intensi‹ed the soldiers’ fear and lowered morale. Lazius vividly described Roggendorf’s anxiety and uncertainty in the face of rampant disease and a large enemy force, as he tried to decide whether to ‹ght or ›ee.73

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Finally, the news that Turkish reinforcements led by Suleiman himself were on the way produced something close to panic in the Habsburg camp. In Lazius’s version, as Roggendorf lay gravely ill in bed, Hungarian allies of the Habsburg forces pointed out to him that disease had reduced the army to onethird its original size, that supplies and money were lacking, and that courage and fortune had been tested long enough. In short, they argued that unless Roggendorf wanted to imitate the fate of Varus and his legions, it was time to leave.74 Roggendorf agreed but delayed in order to try to get Ferdinand’s authorization for retreat. His appeals were reinforced by a letter that shows Lazius actively engaged in making (as well as recording) military history. Lazius reported, “The medici, among whom I was in the ‹rst place, also wrote to the king about the illness of the general and how severe and incurable the epidemic in the camp was.”75 But shortly thereafter, the arrival of Suleiman and his troops resulted in the total rout and hasty retreat of the remnant of the Habsburg forces. Lazius’s ambition to write the history of Austria and the neighboring lands led him, like other northern humanists (and other antiquarians), to devote attention to the medieval past. Indeed, his most enduring historical contribution was probably the important collection of medieval manuscripts that he brought back to Vienna from his travels to monasteries throughout Austria and parts of southern Germany. He spent the spring and summer months of 1548, 1549, and 1551 in three extended journeys through upper and lower Austria, Carinthia, Bavaria, Swabia, and beyond, in a wide-ranging search for materials for his researches into Habsburg genealogy and Austrian history. Armed with an imperial letter of authorization, he acquired numerous manuscripts ranging in date from the ninth to the fourteenth centuries— some purchased, some more or less willingly given as gifts, and some handed over in the belief that what was involved was a loan rather than a permanent transfer.76 He announced his ‹ndings and future plans by publishing, along with a prospectus for a work on church history, a list of seventy-one unedited theological, historical, and literary manuscripts from monastic libraries, an announcement soon noted in the Appendix to Gessner’s Bibliotheca universalis. After Lazius’s death, most of his manuscript collection entered the imperial library.77 Lazius made some remarkable ‹nds (including a twelfthcentury copy of the book of Genesis in German, which he gave to Ferdinand),78 but in his own use of medieval sources, he treated the Nibelungenlied—which he did not know by that name—and other medieval epics as reliable history.79 Lazius’s completed and published works most fully reveal both his central

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preoccupations and his limitations as historian and antiquary. Broadly speaking, the topics of these works fall into two main categories. One is the geography and chorography of Austria and the genealogies of Austrian noble families.80 The other is the ancient past of the Habsburg lands: the origins of the city of Vienna, the government and institutions of the Romans in their Danubian provinces, and the origins and migrations of the Germanic and other invaders of these parts of the Roman Empire.81 He returned to the subject of the migrating peoples over and over again, not only in his principal printed work on the subject but also in numerous manuscripts on the various ancient provinces or regions of the Danubian lands.82 Interest in the early history of the Germanic peoples was the principal intellectual link between Lazius and Beatus Rhenanus, though the resemblance ended there. In his Rerum Germanicarum libri, Rhenanus, the scholarly editor of Tacitus, had ruthlessly discarded both such traditions as the Trojan origins of the Franks and the contributions of Annius of Viterbo and “Berosus”; he had instead rested his account on careful comparison of late ancient texts, including third-century panegyrics edited by himself for the ‹rst time.83 The dedicatory letter prefaced to Lazius’s De gentium aliquot migrationibus warmly praised Rhenanus as a restorer of history, and Lazius, too, positioned himself, in the opening pages of the work, as discarding baseless historical myths. Of course, Lazius declared, Vienna’s cathedral of St. Stephen could not have been founded before Christianity reached Austria; trustworthy annals showed that the founder was Duke Henry, in 1111.84 But Lazius’s version of the Trojan myth was to claim that the ancient Hebrews had arrived in Pannonia before the Trojan War and he freely cited Berosus. Even more striking is the disconnect between Lazius’s repeated insistence on the need to reject historical myths and his apparent facility in inventing evidence to con‹rm them, most notably when he claimed to have found stones at Gumpendorf just outside Vienna with Hebrew inscriptions that supported his contention that the ancient Israelites had established themselves there shortly after the Flood.85 Indeed, it seems that his very awareness of the need for new historical methodology and new categories of evidence, including material evidence, led him to supply what could not be found. Lazius devoted much—if not always successful—effort to the interpretation of archaeological evidence from ancient inscriptions and coins. He collected Roman inscriptions systematically (physically removing a number of gravestones and inscribed tablets to the garden of his house) and ‹lled his works with transcriptions of them.86 In his capacity as curator of Emperor Ferdinand’s medals (a position he held in addition to that of imperial histori-

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cus), he published a study of selected items from the imperial collection. In addition, his Commentarii rerum Graecarum mixes numismatics with chorographic information drawn from the descriptions of ancient travelers. In the course of trying to ward off anticipated criticism because of his own unfamiliarity with Greece, he showed that he had given thoughtful consideration to the relation between travel writing and antiquarianism. I am afraid that someone . . . will come forward and object . . . that I who have never traveled through Greece have nevertheless dared to write these commentaries about it. And he will say that the works of Pausanias and Strabo, who saw everything there with their own eyes, are suffcient. But I brie›y respond to such people, saying it is one thing to write travel accounts and quite another to explain them, compare them with one another, and add what is lacking from other sources.87 But, alas, this critical awareness of the comparison of texts and the desirability of using and comparing the evidence of both texts and artifacts was undermined by Lazius’s de‹ciencies, which were as evident to discerning contemporaries as to later readers. Geography, chorography, and genealogy also had a central place in Lazius’s enterprise. As already noted, the search for genealogical information about Austrian noble families, especially the Habsburgs and those connected with them, provided much of the motivation for his hunt for medieval manuscripts. Substantial sections of his two best-known works, Vienna Austriae and De gentium aliquot migrationibus, are also devoted to genealogies of the Austrian nobility. Chorography and geography are ubiquitous in his writings, both manuscript and printed. His accounts of various provinces and regions habitually include descriptions of natural features and the locations and ancient and modern names of cities, Roman camps, or other sites. This aspect of his work also led him to take up cartography. In 1561, he published the ‹rst set of printed maps of the lands of the Austrian monarchy, consisting of maps that he had drawn and engraved himself.88 In a set of hand-drawn maps that accompanies one of the manuscripts of his history of the Schmalkaldic War, he traced the route followed by Charles V in gold and that of Ferdinand in silver. Another type of appreciation of the power of visual images appears in his published account of Maximilian II’s entry into Vienna, which is accompanied by illustrations of the arches erected for the occasion and an explanation of the symbolism that decorated them. Possibly, like Hartman Schedel, he used depictions that he found in illustrated broadsides.89

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As observed earlier, Lazius was fully capable of analyzing the impact of environmental and health conditions in situations of which he had direct personal experience. But in his proli‹c writings on the distant past, it is undeniably hard to ‹nd signs of the kind of exploration of ancient institutions or customs in the light of medical or health concerns that is characteristic of some of the Roman physicians discussed in chapter 5 of the present study. One brief comparison suf‹ces to make the point—namely, the ways in which Lazius and the Roman physician Marsilio Cagnati treated the subject of ancient clothing. Cagnati’s allusion to ancient clothing is slight, but it occurs in the context of a work on the preservation of health. In the course of a discussion of the ancient Roman propensity for frequent washing (the baths again), Cagnati remarked that the antiquary Onofrio Panvinio had pointed out that the toga-wearing Romans went about with bare arms and legs. This explanation led Cagnati to realize that so much exposure of the body rendered frequent washing necessary.90 By contrast, Lazius considered clothing in some detail in two contexts. In what may be his most substantial contribution to the study of antiquity, a work on Roman civil and military institutions and customs in provinciis exteris, he included a chapter entitled “De vestimentis,” in which he provided a straightforward list and explanation of various items of Roman dress and weaponry. In his work on the migrations of the Germanic tribes, he made up for his lack of archaeological source material by providing highly imaginative illustrations of the dress of the early peoples based on ancient writers’ descriptions, which he expounded at some length.91 But in neither case does Lazius appear to have considered dress in relation to the care of the body or health. Even the statements of ancient authors about the early Germans’ near nudity, hardiness in the face of cold, and habit of bathing in rivers—statements that greatly exercised Philip Clüver and Hermann Conring in the next century—received only brief and noncommittal mention from Lazius.92 In one brief episode—his service at Buda and the record of it in book 2 of his history of recent events in Hungary—Lazius bears comparison with Alessandro Benedetti as a physician who both served in and wrote the history of a war. To some extent, his interest in natural features of the landscape and in chorography represents continuing attention to natural knowledge, though always combined with textual knowledge about ancient place-names and settlements. But in much of his writings, Lazius presents what is surely an extreme example of a lifelong (if perhaps only intermittently full-time) medical career combined with an engagement with the past that turned away from, rather than being integrated with, either medical learning or natural

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Fig. 7. Members of the early Germanic tribes as illustrated in Wolfgang Lazius’s De gentium aliquot migrationibus, sedibus ‹xis, reliquiis, linguarumque initiis et immutationibus ac dialectis, libri XII (Frankfurt, 1600), 494. The work was ‹rst published in Basel in 1557. (Rare Books Division, The New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox and Tilden Foundations.)

knowledge. His medical as well as his humanist learning may well have contributed to his interest in narrative and in visual and material evidence. But it is noteworthy that he himself chose to parallel with medicine only the most laborious physical aspects of his career of collecting, mapping, and describing the total res austriacae from antiquity to his own time. In a graduation oration, he defended medicine against the standard critical topos that it was an undesirable occupation because physicians had to deal with the most repellent aspects of physical human nature. In rebuttal, Lazius pointed out that

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historians and chorographers, too, faced demanding and sometimes unpleasant physical tasks: if they were mapping muddy territory, they were obliged to “wade through fetid swamps and scale mountains even if they were ‹lthier than the chimera.”93

johannes sambucus: medicine, history, and philology Lazius’s successor as historicus at the Habsburg court in Vienna was yet another physician, the Hungarian János Zsámboki, whose name was latinized as Johannes Sambucus. Much more than either Cuspinianus or Lazius, Sambucus moved in a Europe-wide humanist milieu. His origin, his travels, his intellectual contacts, his personal friendships, and his correspondence all reached beyond the German lands; and as a book collector, philologist, and scholarly editor, his interests extended beyond both medicine and history. Born in what was then the Hungarian city of Tyrnau (now Trnava in Slovakia), he was educated in Vienna from the age of eleven and subsequently studied at the universities of Leipzig, Wittenberg, Ingolstadt, and Strasbourg. Thereafter, he went to Paris, where he took his master’s degree in philosophy in 1551, and to Padua, where he studied medicine. After further journeys to Vienna, again to Paris, and to the Netherlands, he ‹nally settled in Vienna in 1564. Appointed both historicus and medicus titularis aulae at the court of Maximilian II, he held these positions simultaneously for most of the rest of his life.94 Under Maximilian’s patronage, he also practiced medicine in the city of Vienna. When the medical faculty of the university, which claimed the right to license all medical practice in Vienna, attempted to oblige Sambucus, as a foreign physician (whose Lutheran tendencies also engendered some hostility), to obtain a Viennese degree, Maximilian issued an order exempting court physicians from the faculty’s control.95 Thus, even more than Cuspinianus, who had moved from the university to royal service, and Lazius, who had combined university and court roles, Sambucus belonged to the world of the Viennese court.96 But the court of Maximilian II, to a much greater extent than that of Ferdinand, was both a center of scienti‹c patronage, especially for mathematics and natural history, and relatively open to the presence of a few learned men of Reformed religious views.97 Sambucus was one of a number of medically trained men distinguished for their learning who were associated with or employed at the court. Among the others were such well-known physicians and naturalists as Johann Crato von Krafftheim (also a Lutheran), Rembert Dodoens, and Pier

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Andrea Mattioli. In the wider world, Sambucus counted in his circle of friends and correspondents some of the most important humanists and intellectuals of the second half of the sixteenth century. In addition to those just mentioned, they included, at Vienna, the botanist Carolus Clusius (Charles de l’Ecluse); Sigmund von Herberstein, for whom Sambucus wrote a verse epitaph; and Hugo Blotius. (Unfortunately, relations between Sambucus and Blotius degenerated into bitter rivalry when, in 1575, Blotius obtained the position of imperial librarian, which Sambucus had apparently hoped to obtain himself.) Sambucus’s contacts extended to his former teachers, the physician and humanist Joachim Camerarius and Johann Sturm, in Germany; to the humanist printers/publishers Henri Estienne and Christophe Plantin in France and the Low Countries, respectively; to the Roman antiquarian Fulvio Orsino and the Florentine philologist Pier Vettori in Italy; and to the historian, encyclopedist, and physician Theodore Zwinger in Switzerland.98 Sambucus was a collector of both manuscripts and printed books on a heroic scale. The contents of his collection of about ‹ve hundred Greek and Latin manuscripts (which ‹nancial necessity obliged him to sell to the royal library) and of the library of more than three thousand printed books that he left at his death suggest the range of his interests. His manuscript collection was primarily devoted to Greek theology, philology, literature, and history and contained only a small number of works on medicine and natural philosophy.99 Of the printed books, about 15 percent related to medicine, and perhaps about the same number related to history in one form or another. The rest encompassed a large corpus of ancient and Neo-Latin literature, numerous up-to-date works on astronomy and other arts and sciences, and a substantial collection of writings on astrology, magic, and prophecy.100 Sambucus himself published in a variety of humanist genres. He edited a number of ancient literary and philosophical texts, including an edition and translation of some dialogues of Lucian of Samosata that was many times reissued. Shortly before his death, he released a printed catalog of the printed works that he had either written or edited and the future publications that he planned.101 But his most widely read work may have been a collection of emblems, a frequently reprinted and in›uential contribution to a popular genre.102 The emblems bear witness to both Sambucus’s medical and his historical interests, as well as to his wide acquaintance with leading antiquaries, historians, physicians, and naturalists. In his preface, he explicitly paralleled the exemplary function of emblems with that of history and drew on ancient history for many of their subjects. Among several emblems on medical topics,

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one titled “Aesculapius” is dedicated to “Wolfgang Lazius, polyhistor,” with an accompanying verse referring to Lazius’s medical skills.103 In medicine, Sambucus’s scholarly contributions consisted chie›y of philological work on Greek texts. He contributed emendations to an edition and commentary of Hippocrates prepared by Zwinger and published in Basel in 1579 and also worked on Paul of Aegina.104 But undoubtedly the most important of his medical projects was his work on Dioscorides’ De materia medica. Throughout the sixteenth century, Dioscorides remained an author of the ‹rst importance for both medical practitioners and naturalists, as the resounding success of Mattioli’s Latin version and commentary demonstrates.105 The Greek text was ‹rst printed in an Aldine edition in 1499; half a century later, Jacques Goupyl prepared another edition, based on the collation of manuscripts. But in the 1560s, the imperial ambassador Ogier Ghislain de Busbecq acquired in Constantinople and brought to Vienna a resource of extraordinary importance for the textual study of Dioscorides: the celebrated early sixth-century codex prepared for Anicia Juliana.106 Sambucus began to plan a new edition of Dioscorides based on “collation of very old manuscript codices” in 1569, shortly after the arrival of Busbecq’s purchase.107 By early 1570, he was hard at work on the project; later that year, he asked Vettori and Crato to contribute their own emendations from manuscripts to which they had access. In June 1571, he told Zwinger that the work of editing the text was ‹nished, described the images he was having prepared for the illustrations, and consulted with him about ‹nding a publisher.108 But Sambucus nevertheless continued to work on Dioscorides and to seek further contributions from other humanists for years thereafter (a similar pattern— the submission of emendations spread over many years, accompanied by complaints about delay in publication—characterized his contribution to the Hippocrates edition).109 In 1576, Blotius reported, in his capacity as imperial librarian, that he was unable to ‹nd the Dioscorides codex from Constantinople, which had been loaned to Sambucus, though the latter said he had given it back (this implied accusation probably needs to be put in the context of the ongoing hostilities between Sambucus and Blotius springing from their rivalry over the imperial librarianship).110 Protracted negotiations with Estienne about printing the edition led only to further delays, as Estienne decided to accompany it with a new translation by Jean-Antoine Sarasin. The bilingual volume that ‹nally resulted included marginal emendations to the Greek text by both Sambucus and Sarasin, although the numerous citations of readings in the vetus presumably come from Sambucus. Though it remained the standard edition of Dioscorides until the nineteenth century, it was com-

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pleted by Sarasin and published—not in Geneva, but by the heirs of Wechel in Frankfurt—in 1598, long after Sambucus’s death.111 The edition also includes a few pages of notes on the text by Sambucus, most of them concerned with the identi‹cation of plants described by Dioscorides. Sambucus made observations on the descriptions in the light of his own experience as well as of the opinion of contemporary medical and botanical authors—Mattioli, Fuchs, and others. These observations make it clear that Sambucus’s interest in Dioscorides was not exclusively philological: it also had a practical, medical, and pharmacobotanical side that links him to other physicians and naturalists of his time and place. For example, he remarked that “if saliuncus is a species of nard, it is also found in Hungary”; noted that he was surprised to learn that Hungarian and Bohemian vitex produced a kind of oil; and commented on discrepancies between Mattioli’s illustrations and picturae antiquae (presumably in the Anicia Juliana codex), as well as between Mattioli’s illustrations and the actual plants. Personal and botanical interest presumably came together in one of his notes on Dioscorides: “Others may see whether the name sambucus aquaticus should be applied to [the plant described in] this chapter. On the outskirts of a town in Habsburg Hungary, at the second milestone from Poszony, I found sambucus really growing as a tree, like the other kinds as far as its medicinal effects [viribus] were concerned, but with incised leaves like a wild ranunculus, which because it resembled the latter I named ‘ranunucular sambucus.’”112 While Hungarian ›ora found a small place in Sambucus’s contribution to the edition of Dioscorides, Hungary was the central focus of his historical work. Most of it was focused on current issues—especially the continuing military and political crisis presented by Turkish advances and the tense relations between the Habsburgs and János Zápolya in Transylvania.113 The centrality of these concerns emerges sharply from notes in which Sambucus recorded the news that came to his attention in Vienna in the 1560s, as well as in the works that he designed for publication.114 Yet although he apparently planned to write a large work on Hungarian history, he never did so. In history as in medicine, his principal contribution was as a scholarly editor— although his editing of historical material involved not laborious philology but compiling and supplementing existing accounts. His ‹rst historical publication, in 1552, seems designed to appeal to Habsburg historical and dynastic interests and suggests a search for court patronage, perhaps already with an eye to the position of historicus. Dedicated to Maximilian as king of Bohemia, it contained a reissue of Johann Huttich’s small portrait book (originally published in 1525) of Roman and German rulers from Julius Cae-

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sar to Charles V, with portraits supposedly taken from coins and medals. The revised version was expanded to include a list of consuls, Festus Rufus’s epitome of Roman history, and verses on each of the emperors by ancient and modern poets.115 As historicus, another of Sambucus’s undertakings was an effort to preserve and circulate his predecessor’s work on Roman and early German history. He endeavored to arrange for a second edition of Lazius’s work on the Roman provinces in exteris and secured from Maximilian permission for the continued sale of De gentium aliquot migrationibus, which had given offense to some of the Austrian nobility—presumably through Lazius’s failure to endow them with suf‹ciently ›attering genealogies.116 Lazius himself had been aware of this hazard. Whatever his beliefs about ancient peoples and the descent of the Habsburgs, he traced the genealogies of various other noble families back no further than the early Middle Ages. But, as he remarked, “everyone wants Trojan ancestors.”117 Sambucus’s chief historical publications were editions and compilations concerning Hungary. For these, he drew principally on the works of Italian scholars who, in the late ‹fteenth century, had spent time at the court of King Matthias Corvinus, the great patron of humanist culture in Hungary; he supplemented their work with his own narratives of recent military campaigns and other material. In 1558, he published the ‹rst edition of the Epitome rerum Hungaricarum, by the Dominican Pietro Ransano, or Ranzano (1428–92), which its author had intended as one section of a world history (never completed); Ranzano himself had drawn on late ancient sources for the early history of the Hunni and other peoples and on Hungarian chroniclers for subsequent events. With the edition of Ranzano, Sambucus included his own account of the heroic defense of Eger in northern Hungary against the Turks in 1552.118 Ten years after the appearance of the Epitome, in 1568, Sambucus published his edition of a much more massive work, the Rerum Ungaricarum decades quatuor, cum dimidia by the humanist Antonio Bon‹ni (ca. 1434–1503). The ‹rst part of this work had previously been published at Basel in 1543.119 To Bon‹ni’s hitherto unpublished later sections dealing with the period from 1486 to 1495, Sambucus added nineteen appendixes assembled from various sources; these contained supplementary accounts of episodes or personalities in Hungarian history, narratives of recent sieges or battles (among them the disaster of Mohacs), treaties and other documents, chronologies, and Sambucus’s funeral eulogy for Ferdinand II. Contributions written by Sambucus himself included brief narratives of four contemporary military campaigns, three of which recounted instances in which Habsburg or Hungarian forces successfully defended against or defeated the Ottomans.120

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Thus, some local and short-lived successes, possibly allied with the effect of his own distance from the battle‹eld, enabled Sambucus to present a considerably more heroic and optimistic picture of warfare than Lazius’s bleak account of his personal experience of defeat and withdrawal.121 Blotius, who perhaps had in mind a comparison with the mass of historical writing produced by Lazius, commented rather nastily that it was astonishing that anyone could hold the title and receive the salary of historicus for so long and actually write as little history as Sambucus.122 But other contemporaries placed a more positive value on Sambucus as historian or historical editor and compiler, at least if one may judge by his inclusion in a prominent collection of theorists of history. In the preface to the edition of Bon‹ni, Sambucus had expounded some general views on history: it should be useful, true, about public affairs, and for the public good; the admixture of ‹ction, including imaginary speeches, should be left to poets; and ›attery should be avoided at all costs. A few years later, Johann Wolf stripped this preface of its compliments to Maximilian II in order to include it as one of the treatises on the reading and writing of history assembled in his Artes historicae penus.123 Sambucus’s medical and historical interests fused in one work, which perhaps also re›ects the sensibility that made him a successful inventor of emblems. His Icones is a collection of engraved portraits of “some ancient and modern physicians and philosophers,” each characterized in an accompanying verse.124 The ancients represented—slightly less than half the total of sixty-six—include a few philosophers (e.g., Pythagoras, Thales, Socrates, Plato, Aristotle) and some mythological ‹gures associated with medicine (Apollo, Chiron); but most of the rest are physicians and naturalists, among them Hippocrates, Theophrastus, Pliny, Celsus, Galen, and Dioscorides. The presence of Crateuas, Sextius Niger, Heraclides of Tarentum, and Pamphilus—ancient botanical and pharmacological authors known only via Dioscorides—evidently re›ects Sambucus’s work on the Dioscorides edition; indeed, the portraits of these and some other ancient physicians are said to be modeled on illustrations in the Anicia Juliana Dioscorides codex.125 All the “moderns” are physicians. Only four date from before the sixteenth century: three ‹fteenth-century ‹gures—Bartolomeo da Montagnana, Michele Savonarola, and Marsilio Ficino—and Pietro de’ Crescenzi, a medieval physician and author of a work on agriculture. All the rest ›ourished in the ‹rst half of the sixteenth century. Indeed, a twenty-‹rst-century reader could use Sambucus’s list as a well-chosen who’s who of two generations of leading men in medicine and natural history in Italy, Germany, the Low Countries, and France. The accompanying verses make brief and somewhat cryptic allusions

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to the accomplishments of the subjects—Rondelet is praised for his expertise on ‹sh, Vesalius is contrasted with the ancients who dissected “pig and puppies, not men,” and the “viscera of the earth” are mentioned in connection with Agricola.126 But it is hard to avoid the conclusion that such verses would be meaningful only to readers who already knew something about their subjects, a supposition con‹rmed by the editor’s decision to include brief biographies in the second edition of the work published in 1603.127 Sambucus’s Icones maps the boundaries of the contemporary scienti‹c world for an in-group of learned physicians, at the same time presenting them as worthy successors of their historic forbears. At the university and the court in Vienna in the ‹rst eighty years of the sixteenth century, many others besides the three men discussed in this chapter pursued medicine and natural history, on the one hand, or civil history, genealogy, and antiquarianism, on the other. Under the aegis of Maximilian I, Cuspinianus was a participant in the ›ourishing literary and historical cultural circle associated with the name of Celtis. Even in more straitened circumstances under Ferdinand I, Lazius was by no means the only—or the most important—antiquary to enjoy royal favor, as his rivalry with Jacopo Strada demonstrates. Sambucus was one of many bene‹ciaries of the patronage bestowed on physicians, naturalists, and other men of learning by Maximilian II. Yet when Cuspinianus, Lazius, and Sambucus are considered together, their interests, writings, and collecting illustrate, in an especially striking way, one type of integration of medicine and history, in which history and antiquarianism came to predominate over medicine. Their careers also suggest some of the ways in which local circumstances and a particular environment contributed to this development. Like the physicians encountered in previous chapters, Cuspinianus, Lazius, and Sambucus were formed by a medical education that fostered interest in empiricism, example, and narrative and, at the same time, were participants in a broader humanistic culture. In their instance, the relevant aspects of that broader culture were primarily the development of humanist history in the German-speaking lands together with the search for local antiquities and the German medieval past, such as are associated with, for example, the name of Beatus Rhenanus. Yet they were evidently also shaped by the political and religious environment of Vienna and the Habsburg court. That religious environment is sometimes considered relatively irenic and open in a contentious age, but that description does not quite ‹t the careers and experiences of Cuspinianus, Lazius, and Sambucus. The context of the antipapal

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remarks in Cuspinianus’s historical writings, composed at a time before confessional lines were ‹rmly drawn, is the medieval struggle of empire and papacy; they thus demonstrate not adherence to religious reform but the author’s loyalty to the Habsburg dynasty. Lazius identi‹ed strongly with Catholic orthodoxy against the Reformers. Only Sambucus, at the court of Maximilian II, seems both to have been to some degree sympathetic to Lutheran views himself and to have moved easily among intellectual friends on either side of the religious divide—at the cost of engendering some hostility. Yet whatever other circumstances affected these men, their careers— which, to a greater or lesser extent, in each case drew them away from medicine—clearly also re›ected the con‹dence of successive Habsburg rulers that medical training produced scholars who were ‹tting and competent to write civil history that was responsive to dynastic interests and current politics.

Chapter Seven

BEYOND EUROPE

M

edical men both read and contributed to Renaissance and early modern writing on the world beyond Europe. News of New World diseases and remedies engendered famous controversies within the European medical community, and some works of physician authors on exotic plants probably reached a substantially wider audience.1 But the interest of sixteenth- or seventeenth-century physicians in regions outside Europe was by no means con‹ned to such strictly medical topics as new drugs and new diseases and the more or less related area of exotic natural history. Beyond as well as within Europe, antiquities and different varieties of history (ancient and modern, civil and disciplinary), along with ethnography, all attracted the attention of medically trained authors. Contemporary international politics, the pull of ancient secular and religious history, fascination with Egypt as a source of ancient wisdom in medicine as in much else, and practical considerations relating to travel and employment all ensured that physicians drawn to history and antiquities were more likely to turn their attention to the Middle East than to either the New World or to east or south Asia. There are, to be sure, some prominent exceptions to this generalization. For example, Dr. Francisco Hernandez (1515–87), who was commissioned by Philip II to describe the natural history of New Spain, styled himself “medicus et historicus.” During several years spent in Mexico in the 1570s, in addition to collecting a vast store of information on natural history, he drew on earlier missionary accounts of Aztec society and religion to write The Antiquities of New Spain, as well as a brief and equally 225

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derivative history of the Spanish conquest, though all these works remained unpublished until long after his death.2 Almost a hundred years later, Dr. François Bernier, also remembered as an atomist and as Gassendi’s disciple and interpreter to a wider public, used his time as a physician at the Mughal court to collect information for a history of the war of succession among the sons of Shah Jehan.3 Nevertheless, the interests of sixteenth-century European physicians turned more often to the Ottoman Empire and the lands of the eastern Mediterranean, and it is their historical and antiquarian writings on these areas that are the focus of the present chapter. The region of the Middle East was simultaneously close to and distant from Europe in a way unlike either the Americas or other parts of Asia. It was both a source of acute current political concern and the scene of a long and cherished classical and Christian previous history, without parallel in the New World—despite the best efforts of sixteenth-century humanist observers to read the history of New World peoples through a classical and biblical lens (Hernandez was among those who gave credence—albeit cautiously in his case—to the notion that the earliest inhabitants of Mexico were descendants of the lost tribes of Israel).4 An outpouring of writing ranging from vernacular pamphlets to learned treatises testi‹es to the intense interest that the Ottoman Empire and Islamic Middle East aroused among ‹fteenthand sixteenth-century western Europeans. Political and religious anxieties about Ottoman expansion generated much of this literature, but so, too, did fascination with the antiquities of Egypt and surviving ancient or Christian monuments in Constantinople, the enduring signi‹cance of the Christian holy places as a goal of pilgrimage, and expanding interest in travelogues and geographical and natural historical description. Medical authors contributed to this massive output of Renaissance European works on the East in a variety of ways. Within Europe, the Ottomans and their recent advances to the west were a central preoccupation of historical and political writers; medically trained historians among them included not only the ‹gures at the Habsburg court at Vienna described in the previous chapter but also the Italian Paolo Giovio, who devoted to Turkish affairs substantial sections of his History of His Own Time, as well as a treatise on the Turks dedicated to Charles V.5 Scienti‹c interest and professional opportunity drew other physicians to travel for themselves to eastern Mediterranean lands. From a scienti‹c and medical standpoint, natural history was a study pursued with increasing intensity in its own right while remaining closely linked to the search for and trade in medicinal ingredients. In the Middle East (unlike the New World),

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exotic natural history promised not only knowledge of rare or unknown medicinal ingredients but also the correct identi‹cation of medicinal plants and substances named as especially valuable by ancient authors.6 Furthermore, various accounts by ancient writers located either the origin or important early developments in the history of medicine in Egypt. Perhaps most important, the medical profession itself could offer humanistically educated men opportunities to travel to or reside in the Middle East with some degree of protection, support, and remuneration. Such opportunities were especially available to subjects of Venice, as the Venetian consuls and resident communities of merchants in various cities of the Levant regularly engaged medici condotti, some of whom remained in residence for a considerable period of years.7 In other instances, physicians and naturalists accompanied diplomatic missions. The entourage of Gabriel d’Aramon, who traveled through the Ottoman lands from 1547 to 1553 on a famous embassy from Francis I, included an of‹cial geographer (Nicolas de Nicolay) and, at various times, the cosmographer André Thevet; the naturalist, humanist, and antiquarian Pierre Gilles; and the apothecary and physician-in-training Pierre Belon.8 The German physician and naturalist Leonhart Rauwolf traveled because a northern European commercial ‹rm engaged him as medical practitioner for its agents in the Levant.9 Still others, among them Melchior Guilandini, later prefect of the botanic garden of the University of Padua, owed their travels to the sponsorship of noble patrons at home.10 Thus, just as local structures, institutions, patronage, and professional obligations played a part in shaping medical careers and historical interests in Rome and Vienna, so, too, speci‹c professional contexts shaped the experience, activities, and local contacts of sixteenth-century European physicians in the Ottoman Empire (and in other regions outside Europe, though in different ways). Physicians’ accounts of the civil or the medical history or of the antiquities of eastern Mediterranean regions that they knew ‹rsthand make up only a small minority of the large number of sixteenth-century travel narratives about the Middle East, but they include some remarkable examples of empiricism, esteem for history as a form of knowledge, and dedication to autopsia.11 Nevertheless, as recent scholarship has emphasized, humanistically educated travelers arrived in the East with a great deal of intellectual baggage. Their descriptions of the contemporary society they encountered were ‹ltered through Western anxieties and preconceptions about the Ottoman Empire and Islam. Even more signi‹cantly, they habitually wrote in dialogue with classical descriptions of or allusions to the same regions, as well as with a long tradition of earlier travel writing, including medieval pilgrimage nar-

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ratives. In addition to being shaped, to a greater or lesser extent, by such external circumstances as their authors’ professional obligations, limitations of time, and limitations of language, these accounts stood in complex relation to an earlier body of literature, both ancient and more recent.12 This chapter will not attempt to untangle all these threads or to explore further the origins and general development of humanist interest in the East. These subjects have been well addressed in a number of recent studies.13 Rather, I shall consider a few works exemplifying three different approaches through which medical authors addressed “Eastern” history or antiquities: ‹rst, attention to material remains of Egyptian antiquity in connection with current medical controversy; second, efforts to explore, evaluate, and ultimately critique claims for Egypt’s special role in the early history of medicine; and third, recent political history.

the admirable works of the ancients Pierre Belon was known in his own day—and achieved lasting fame thereafter—chie›y as the author of pioneering works of natural history in the vernacular and of a lively account of all he saw and experienced in three years of travel, from 1547 to 1549, through Crete and other parts of Greece, Constantinople, Egypt, and various cities of the Levant.14 Belon’s enthusiasm for ‹rsthand experience, his naturalist’s eye for plants and animals, his interest in the variety of human custom and language, and his relatively dispassionate attitude toward the Turks and other peoples he encountered are evident throughout his travel narrative. So, too, is a professional interest in remedies and therapeutic practices, although Belon’s academic education in medicine was not completed until after his return from these travels. (He had studied materia medica at Wittenberg with Valerius Cordus in 1541–42 and began medical studies at the University of Paris the following academic year, but extended travels in Europe as well as the journey to the Middle East interrupted his studies; he eventually received his licentiate in medicine from the University of Paris in 1560.)15 At the same time, though Belon shared the respect for the ancients shown by other travelers of the period, he cited only a limited range of classical sources and occasionally distanced himself from their authority, especially in his vernacular works.16 In addition to his medical and scienti‹c interests, Belon also wrote on history and antiquities. He was a highly involved historian of the religious and political crises of his own day. In his Cronique de Pierre Belon de Mans,

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medecin, dedicated to Charles IX, he compared himself, not inaptly, to Callisthenes of Olynthus, a pupil of Aristotle who both wrote a partisan history of Alexander the Great and engaged in scienti‹c observations. The Cronique is a ‹ercely polemical account of an early phase of the Wars of Religion in France, in which Huguenots are compared (to their disadvantage) not only to heretical sects and rebel uprisings from the ancient Arians to the Pastoreaux but also, in point of their attitude toward Catholic religious practice, to both nonChristian authorities and Eastern Christian groups that Belon had met with on his travels.17 The Cronique, left un‹nished at Belon’s death in 1565, remained in manuscript for centuries; but earlier, in 1553 (the same year in which he published his travel account), Belon had published a Latin work on an antiquarian topic—the funeral monuments and funeral practices of the ancients.18 Several striking aspects of On the Admirable Works of the Ancients have, separately, attracted the attention of historians. Belon’s collection and comparison of early descriptions of Egyptian embalming methods is a notable example of Renaissance antiquarian scholarship and Egyptomania. His attack on current trade practices and medical understanding regarding the medication known as mumia is well known to historians of medicine and pharmacology. His description of petroleum ‹nds a place in accounts of the early history of mineral fuels and energy.19 But what the work as a whole most clearly reveals— and what has perhaps attracted less notice—are deep structural connections linking Belon’s study of antiquity, concern for practical medicine, and pursuit of natural history. The preface and the dedication of On the Admirable Works of the Ancients give slightly different accounts of the work’s purpose and genesis. The preface stresses the magni‹cent monuments of the Egyptians; their belief in the immortality of the soul and concern to preserve the body, too, for eternity; and hence the interest of their funerary procedures. But the dedication to Belon’s patron, Cardinal François de Tournon, tells a more down-to-earth story that is as much medical as antiquarian. After his return to France from the East, Belon was beginning to assemble materials for a book on antiquities based not just on his experiences overseas but also on further study and access to sculpture in the royal collections. But in the same year came news of the death of Pope Paul III and consequent preparations for Cardinal de Tournon’s journey to Rome for the conclave. When the cardinal asked his apothecary to obtain mumia and rhubarb for his traveling medical cabinet, Belon intervened to insist that ordinary people were mistaken about what

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constituted mumia.20 Urged by another of the cardinal’s medical attendants to expound his views in writing, Belon devoted the central part of his book on antiquities to a vigorous and entirely current medical polemic. The complex medieval and Renaissance history of the drug mumia has been well described by recent scholars and need not be rehearsed in detail here. Essentially, it is one of many such episodes in which Renaissance physicians and naturalists sought to establish the true identity of a remedy named by older medical authorities, while excoriating apothecaries, the drug trade, and medieval translators for substituting inauthentic or mistakenly identi‹ed substances. In this instance, the term transliterated by medieval Latin translators as mumia was used by Arabic medical authors for a form of bitumen, which they, like Dioscorides before them, classi‹ed as a medicinal substance. By a process of transference, resulting in part from the belief that bituminous substances were used in embalming, mumia came in turn to be used for, and medicinal properties began to be ascribed to, exudates from corpses, ultimately including parts of the corpses themselves. Well before Belon’s time, there was an active and (from the standpoint of the Egyptian authorities) illicit export trade to Europe from Egypt in mumia, involving both ancient and more recent cadavers. Belon, whose interest in unraveling the history of mumia was originally inspired by his teacher Valerius Cordus, was only one of a number of sixteenth-century medical authors who debated the true nature of this medication, but his polemic on the subject involved him in especially acrimonious controversy, notably with Mattioli.21 Hence, as On the Admirable Works of the Ancients ‹nally took shape, its three books were devoted to, respectively, funerary monuments, or what Belon regarded as such; embalming methods of the Egyptians and other peoples; and the natural history and medicinal properties of substances thought to have been used in ancient embalming: cedar resin, bitumen and related minerals, and natron and other salts. Some of the descriptive material about Egyptian monuments in this work also appears in Belon’s narrative of his travels, during which he spent about two months visiting Cairo, Alexandria, and the Pyramids.22 In the Latin work (in contrast not only to his travelogue but also to his vernacular books on natural history), Belon made extensive use of citations and long quotations, occasionally in Greek, from ancient authorities. Yet the criticisms of his lack of humanistic learning by Mattioli and other contemporaries were probably largely justi‹ed. Glardon has shown that Belon almost certainly knew only the rudiments of Greek and suggests that while Belon could undoubtedly read Latin (he could not have pursued academic medical studies without doing so), he may have needed the help of

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an assistant in composing his Latin works. If Belon did have such help, it provides an example of learned assistance to set alongside the role of artisan assistants in early modern scienti‹c activities to which historians of science have recently drawn attention.23 Book 1 of On the Admirable Works of the Ancients opens with a chapter brie›y surveying the funerary monuments and practices of the ancient “Babylonians, Assyrians, Gymnosophists, Chaldaeans, Indians, Ethiopians, and Egyptians,” together with those of the Persians, Greeks, and Romans, but its main (though not exclusive) focus is on Egypt. While chapter topics range from vanished monuments known only from descriptions in ancient texts to a detailed report of Belon’s visit to the Great Pyramid, his usual procedure seems to have been to compare and endeavor to reconcile the accounts of monuments given by ancient authors—primarily Herodotus and Pliny—and to relate them to his own experience of material remains. Thus, in discussing the Great Sphinx, he attempted to solve the puzzle of the apparent absence of any mention of it in Herodotus’s account of Egypt by suggesting that the androsphinges (male sphinxes) described by Herodotus were in fact the same as the Sphinx described by Pliny—although he also noted that the latter had the head of a woman. He went on to consider the sphinx from the standpoint of natural history: the authors said nothing certain about this creature; Belon wrote, “I think no one has ever seen a live one” (nec usquam animalis genus hoc visum a quoquam fuisse vivum puto); Aristotle never mentioned it; and it was, in short, a fabulous animal, like the chimera. Belon nevertheless went on to note the variety of anatomical characteristics he had seen in sculptures of sphinxes in Europe: two splendid Roman bronze ones in the collection of King Francis, “most studious of antiquities,” at Fontainebleau; and several at Rome, in the papal collections and elsewhere in the city. Those at Rome had been brought from Egypt, as one could tell from the hieroglyphics carved on their bases.24 As these remarks show, Belon’s account of Egyptian monuments was informed not only by the record, or memory, of his own travels in Egypt in dialogue with the texts of Herodotus and Pliny but also by his encounters with material remains transported to Europe in antiquity. Among these, the obelisks of Rome and the hieroglyphs with which they were inscribed had fascinated antiquaries since the ‹fteenth century.25 Belon devoted a long and enthusiastic chapter to obelisks in Rome (only one of which was standing upright in his time), Alexandria, and Constantinople, insisting that they had originally been erected by the Egyptians as funerary monuments and declaring them to be much more worthy of admiration than the pyramids.26

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Remarking that “historians differ from physicians in the way they write about things, in that the former by history are accustomed only to describe just things themselves, but physicians immediately undertake to describe the nature, powers, and medical usefulness of those things they investigate,” Belon drew on authorities in both categories for the investigation of mumia in book 2. After assembling descriptions of Egyptian embalming from Herodotus, Pliny, Pomponius Mela, Diodorus Siculus, and Strabo, he turned to Dioscorides, Galen, and Paulus Aegineta for medical accounts of substances said to be preservative of corpses, especially cedar resin and bitumen.27 He pointed out that the use of the medication known as mumia was a relatively recent innovation: no author in antiquity had referred to the use of medicine made from embalmed corpses.28 He claimed, moreover, that the Arabic writers who had introduced the term mumia had used it to describe a form of bitumen, with no reference to corpses, and that they therefore should not be blamed for introducing confusion that was the fault of medieval European interpreters of their work. As a practitioner with an interest in remedies and in the diversity of cultures and vernacular languages, Belon was a good deal more appreciative of the contribution of the Arabs than were many humanist physicians: “Since Greek letters, which for a long time lay as it were in shadows, have been recalled to light, we at present prefer to follow the Greeks. But in reality without the Arabs medical practice would be exercised very ineffectually.”29 Nevertheless, Belon’s goal was not to deny that a true medicament was found in association with some corpses. Rather, he wished to insist that the only authentic medicine of this kind came from speci‹c substances with medicinal properties used in ancient Egyptian embalming. Prominent among these substances, in his view, were bitumen and, above all, cedar resin, which both Dioscorides and Pliny had stated to have medicinal properties and to be preservative of corpses, as was shown by its use for that purpose in Egypt.30 Accordingly, Belon devoted book 3 to describing and distinguishing among these substances, indicating the different properties of various bituminous minerals and salts, as well as the sites where they were found, in the Middle East and elsewhere. In discussing cedar resin, he drew on his own observations of its production and uses among the contemporary Turks.31 Belon’s argument was in part a philological one: he thought that the Arabic-derived word mumia was not the right term for the authentic medicine and wanted to introduce a more classical-sounding alternative (perhaps unsurprisingly, the term he suggested, conditum cadaveris, “corpse seasoning,” did not take off). But he also strongly repudiated two medical argu-

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ments. One was the assertion of a sequence of medieval Latin pharmacological authors that mumia was a mixture of bodily ›uids exuded from cadavers with myrrh, aloe, and balsam. The other was the perhaps related idea that medicinal properties inhered in corpses per se, so that corpses accidentally preserved from decay by sandstorms or other circumstances could be a source of medicine.32 Thus, in Belon’s work, the usual humanist propensity to read personal experience of the material remains of antiquity in the light of ancient description was combined both with new natural historical investigation of still relatively unfamiliar mineral and other substances and with a kind of practical deployment of antiquarian learning in the service of current medical debate.

histories of egyptian medicine Two years after graduating in medicine from the University of Padua, Prospero Alpino, who later in life became prefect of the university’s botanic garden, seized the opportunity to go to Egypt as physician to the Venetian consul in Cairo. Alpino remained in Egypt for just over three years, from 1581 to 1584. He explained his scienti‹c and historical motivations and the genesis of his book On the Medicine of the Egyptians as follows: I went to Egypt because I understood that at one time the ‹rst and truest roots of the art of healing had been among those people, since some people handed down that medicine was practiced there even by animals and many were persuaded that the use of phlebotomy and other effective remedies of the Egyptians came from these [animals]. I stayed among those people for several years, and having observed their medical usages for some time and digested them into ‹ve commentaries, after I returned home I wanted to complete the work.33 But although De medicina Aegyptiorum originated as an inquiry into traditional claims about Egyptian medicine, it is also an extensive report on Alpino’s investigations into health, disease, and therapeutic practices in contemporary Egypt. His experiences there led him to present an account of Egyptian medicine in which he distanced himself from current Egyptian medical practitioners as “empirics” yet endorsed the claim that many of their methods were somehow inherited from antiquity. As a result, his book simultaneously told a revised history of Egyptian medicine and histories of contemporary medical practice in Egypt—of cases, of the relations between prac-

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titioners and patients, and of encounters between visiting European and indigenous Egyptian practitioners.34 Alpino’s interest in contemporary Egyptian medical practices doubtless re›ected his attitude toward contemporary Egypt as a whole, which emerges even more clearly from a general work on that country not published until long after his death. He combined wholehearted acceptance of traditions of ancient Egyptian wisdom (in such areas as astrology and natural magic as well as medicine) with evident enjoyment of his time there, manifest in his enthusiastic description of the size and splendor of Cairo and appreciative remarks about the local cuisine—despite his attributing his considerable weight gain (he had arrived in Egypt skinny and was almost obese by the time he left) to the nourishing qualities of Nile water.35 When Alpino referred to beliefs associating animals with the origin of medicine in Egypt, he was alluding to one of several myths about the invention of medicine—myths that ‹rst appeared, along with related claims for the wisdom of ancient Egyptian physicians, in late antiquity and that were many times repeated in the Renaissance. One such story attributed the discovery of standard therapeutic techniques—bloodletting and the clyster—to observations of the behavior of distinctively Egyptian animals, the hippopotamus and the ibis. (Supposedly, the hippopotamus, when satiated with overeating, restored itself to health by slashing a vein in its thigh with a sharp reed; the ibis used its beak as a syringe for a self-administered enema of Nile water.) Another variety of origin myth attributed the discovery of medicine to named individuals, human or semidivine. Most of the originators of medicine in Polydore Vergil’s widely disseminated De inventoribus rerum were Greek; Apollo, Chiron the centaur, and Homeric warrior-surgeons were presented as constituting a kind of prehistory to Asclepius and Hippocrates. But Polydore also noted that Diodorus Siculus said that Mercury ‹rst invented medicine among the Egyptians, although the ancients claimed that “Apis, king of the Egyptians” discovered it, while Clement of Alexandria ascribed it completely to the Egyptians.36 In some accounts, Egypt was also supposed to be the home of a speci‹cally Hermetic ancient medicine. Clement of Alexandria’s Stromateis was one of the principal sources that could be cited in support of this idea, since it alleged the existence of six medical books of Hermes—not corresponding to any of the surviving philosophical Hermetic literature—covering, respectively, anatomy, diseases, instruments, medicines, ophthalmology, and gynecology.37 One of the philosophical Hermetic treatises actually known in the Renaissance provided yet another apparent witness to an Egyptian origin of

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medicine. The Latin Asclepius identi‹es the eponymous interlocutor’s grandfather, also named Asclepius, as an Egyptian god (or dei‹ed human) who invented medicine.38 Egypt was also the site of the ‹rst beginnings of medicine in a less ›attering account purportedly by medicine’s own leading authority. The pseudo-Galenic Introductio seu medicus gives roles to both Egypt and Greece. The author credited the perfection of medicine to the Greek Asclepius and his successors, especially Hippocrates, but ascribed previous practical rudiments to Egypt. The latter included observation of the ibis, surgical skills developed as a result of Egyptian burial practices, and knowledge of medicinal properties of plants native to Egypt (as testi‹ed by Homer).39 In the mid-sixteenth century, interest in ancient Egypt as a source of medical wisdom may have been further stimulated by the appearance of the collected “medical epistles” of the Heidelberg practitioner Johann Lange, which have been mentioned earlier; they certainly provide striking evidence of the author’s fascination with the subject.40 A letter apparently written during his student days in Italy—Lange graduated in medicine from Pisa in 1522 or 1523—describes a trip to Venice, where he had a conversation with his former Greek teacher, Petrus de Aegina, about the origins of medicine. As reported by Lange, Petrus declared—amid much else—that in all disciplines, the Greeks were only apes of the much more ancient Egyptian scientia. Petrus claimed that the Egyptians had shone forth in the study of medicine from the origin of the world, effecting wonderful cures by means of natural magic; that Democritus, Pythagoras, and Plato had gone to Egypt to learn the secrets of magic to which medicine was annexed; and that when Democritus returned home, he taught what he had learned to Hippocrates. Although the speech Lange attributed to Petrus concludes with admonitions to the effect that medicine is a gift of God bestowed on all nations, the overall thrust is that of an encomium to a most ancient Egyptian medical wisdom closely allied with natural magic. Darker connotations of Egyptian medicine appear in some of Lange’s other epistles, in which it is associated with pagan worship and demonic magic.41 When Alpino came to write De medicina Aegyptiorum, he cast it in the form of dialogue with his former teacher Melchior Guilandinus, prefect of the University of Padua’s botanic garden from 1561 until his death in 1589. Guilandinus, too, had personally visited Egypt early in his career. While there, he inquired “with the greatest care into all the plants of the region” (magna cura in omnes eius regionis stirpes), though he used his observations primarily to make points about ancient Egyptian history and classical philology in rela-

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tion to the ancient use of papyrus, which he had seen growing in Egypt.42 Both Guilandinus and Alpino were committed to the methods and goals of humanist pharmacology and botany. The remarkable development in the sixteenth century of these subdisciplines—which combined botanical description with philological or historical investigation and sought to relate actual plants to descriptions in ancient sources—occurred across Europe. But at the University of Padua and in Venice, a special context was provided by Venice’s role as a great mart for all kinds of medicaments and medicinal ingredients, many of which were or purported to be imported from the eastern Mediterranean.43 Venetian and Paduan civic and academic authorities appreciated the endeavors of Guilandinus and Alpino to describe Egyptian plants ‹rsthand as well as to identify various remedies or ingredients that Dioscorides, Galen, or other ancient writers had characterized as “Egyptian.” Guilandinus’s journey to various parts of the eastern Mediterranean and Egypt had been supported by a Venetian senator who was a member of the Riformatori dello Studio, the Venetian magistracy in charge of the University of Padua. The patrons who ransomed Guilandinus from pirates who captured him on the voyage home included another Venetian noble. It was presumably his Venetian patrons who, shortly thereafter, secured his appointment to the university botanic garden. He was eventually followed in that position by Alpino, whose works on the genuine balsam (1591) and the plants of Egypt (1592) helped him to become lecturer on simples at the University of Padua in 1594 and prefect of the botanic garden in 1603.44 For Guilandinus—at least as presented in Alpino’s dialogue—as for Alpino, Egypt and the origin and sources of medical knowledge were connected themes. The issue around which the dialogue in De medicina Aegyptiorum revolved was the problem of connecting current Egyptian medical practice not only with the stories of ancient origins but also with medical doctrine or theory that, in the eyes of Alpino and his interlocutor, could be regarded as legitimate—that is, essentially, in some way consonant with some branch of Greek tradition or its derivatives. Thus, Alpino informed Guilandinus: “The hippopotamus and other animals of which those miracles of healing are related are certainly found there, but I am now about to offer you what I recently observed about the human beings practicing medicine, . . . and ‹rst I say that in Cairo and many other places in Egypt there are many people, both men and women, who practice medicine publicly through the city but none who exercise this art rationally or Hippocratically.”45 In Alpino’s view, the reason for any de‹ciencies of contemporary Egyptian medicine was not far to seek; the explanation lay in characteristics that anxious Europeans com-

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monly attributed to the Ottomans and their subjects: “now the population there is given to arms, not letters; nor is this surprising since it is subject to the empire of the Turks, who are pleased only by arms and gold and silver and indulging in venery.” Without any apparent awareness of inconsistency, Alpino added that Cairo had lavishly ‹nanced educational institutions but that these were dedicated much more to the study of Islamic theology and law than to arts and sciences. He also described a system of medical licensing in Cairo involving a test of competence to practice, although he claimed it was vitiated by ‹nancial corruption.46 Despite his negative evaluation of aspects of contemporary medicine in Egypt, Alpino remained convinced that earlier Egyptian medicine had been fully rational and as outstanding as learned tradition claimed. He also believed that its decline was relatively recent. The present corrupt method of healing was not due to ignorance of principles of those earliest physicians, but, as I have heard from experts in Egyptian history, to the barbarous tyranny of rulers over the original inhabitants in Egypt, for at the time when the Mamelukes obtained the empire of that region, very learned physicians, who practiced dogmatically and with the highest reason, ›ourished everywhere. But things were so bad under barbarian rule that the best of those very learned physicians often received insults rather than fees. Alpino argued that medicine declined because such a government was inimical to scholarly life and institutions. To these assertions, made in his own persona in the dialogue, Alpino caused his interlocutor Guilandinus to add the comment that things were now even worse under the Turks.47 Alpino’s understanding of the history of Egyptian medicine emerges even more sharply from a passage in his Rerum Aegyptiarum libri, the work that remained unpublished until long after his death. There, he claimed explicitly not only that the physicians of ancient Egypt taught and practiced dogmatic (i.e., rational, as distinct from empirical) medicine but also that Hippocrates himself may, indirectly, have learned from them. But he also asserted that this medicine was preserved until the Turkish conquest (1517) in the form of two Arabic books and that in earlier times practitioners in Egypt “had all the Arab physicians, Avicenna, Albumasar, Rhazes, Averroes.” This understanding assimilated the supposed medical wisdom of remotest Egyptian antiquity into classical Greek and medieval Arabic medicine (Alpino’s perception of a contemporary Egyptian debt to Arabic medicine was no doubt correct).48 Like

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Belon, who had assumed that a method of cauterization he had seen in use among the Turks and successfully tried out for himself on a patient in Salonika was inherited from classical antiquity, Alpino associated any aspects of Egyptian medicine of which he approved with the tradition of medical learning with which he was himself familiar.49 Even though Alpino regarded contemporary Egyptian medical practitioners as neither rational nor dogmatic, he learned to admire some of their technical skills during his stay in Egypt. He especially prized methods of venesection, scari‹cation, and cupping, as well as various medications, all of which were different from those used in Italy. He particularly advocated a form of bloodletting involving making rows of small vertical incisions in the patient’s legs. On his return to Italy, he introduced the technique into his own smalltown medical practice, enthusiastically scarifying the calves of old and young, male and female, among his reluctant patients. He considered the procedure particularly suitable for women and used it for complaints ranging from double tertian fever through dif‹culty in breathing to pestilence.50 Consequently, he concluded that valuable skills possessed by contemporary Egyptian medical practitioners must somehow have been transmitted from their ancient predecessors: “Who would deny that many secrets of the medical art can be known empirically [empirice]? And these include many most noble secret means of healing of the highest usefulness that were once invented by the earliest Egyptian physicians [apud Aegyptios priscos medicos olim inventa] and passed on by other most outstanding physicians [aliis praeclarissimis medicis] to these people [contemporary Egyptian medical practitioners] rather by inheritance than through some doctrine that they learned.”51 Alpino claimed further that current Egyptian practitioners should be regarded not purely as empirics but, rather, as mixing the characteristics of empirics and Methodists. A salient doctrine of the ancient medical sect of the Methodists described by Celsus and Galen was the repudiation of lengthy study of causes as irrelevant to therapy, which, Alpino pointed out, also applied to the modern Egyptians. But the ancient Methodists had also espoused an atomist physics and held that all disease was the result of excessive constriction or relaxation of pores, which made every part of the body transpirable, whereas Alpino noted that the Egyptian practitioners attributed most diseases to excessive heat or cold.52 Alpino’s invocation of the ancient Methodists in connection with contemporary Egyptian medicine was not casual. Less than ten years after the publication of De medicina Aegyptiorum, he announced his intention to revive Methodism as a model for the revision of medical theory; and in 1611, he published a large volume titled De medicina

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methodica.53 Alpino thus deserves a modest place in accounts of the revival of atomism, but it seems likely that his positive assessment of Methodism originally developed in the context of his attempt to interpret Egyptian medicine and its historical development. By linking Egyptian practitioners to the ancient Methodists, he was able to avoid categorizing them as mere empirics, a label that, for Renaissance learned physicians, always carried overtones of disdain. After preliminary chapters devoted to the Egyptian climate, the temperament of the Egyptian body (dif‹cult to determine, since the population of Cairo was of many different origins—including Arab, Ethiopian, Indian, Persian, Greek, Armenian, and Turkish—as well as Egyptian),54 and the disease environment (marked by prevalence of eye diseases and plague), Alpino devoted most of De medicina Aegyptiorum to an analysis of individual Egyptian therapeutic techniques and medicaments. Attentive descriptions of the use and effects of opium, cannabis, lemon sherbet, and a beverage usually identi‹ed as coffee (perhaps one of the earliest European references to coffee, cultivation of which is said to have spread throughout the Arabic world in about the ‹fteenth century) provide a vivid picture of some aspects of life in late sixteenth-century Egypt. An account of opium use describes mood alteration, dreams, and withdrawal symptoms. The subject of coffee elicits appreciative testimony to its stimulating effect ‹rst thing in the morning. Alpino also waxed enthusiastic about the refreshing qualities of lemonade, “most enjoyable to thirsty people,” and provided a recipe.55 His discussion of diet concluded that the Egyptian practices of eating little meat and abstaining from wine (on religious grounds) contributed to longevity, though he also credited the bene‹ts of drinking Nile water.56 His exposition of simple and compound medicines recognized—and exploited—the valuable knowledge of Eastern medicinal plants possessed by Egyptian practitioners, especially “Mohammed, whom I knew very well, who was by far the most learned of all the Egyptians in the res herbaria, to whom every day new medicaments were sent by friends from Arabia, Ethiopia, India and other places.” From this man, Alpino managed to acquire the Egyptian recipe for theriac, a closely guarded commercial secret, which he printed in De medicina Aegyptiorum.57 The thrust of De medicina Aegyptiorum as a whole emerges most clearly in the sections on various forms of bloodletting. In one instance after another, Alpino described, in his own persona, an Egyptian technique that he believed, on the basis of personal observation and trial, to be bene‹cial but that differed from procedures used in contemporary Italian medical or surgical practice. In each case, the role assigned to Guilandinus was to provide a catena of

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learned references from Greek or (sometimes) Arabic medical authors justifying the technique in question. One example may suf‹ce. Alpino wrote that the practice of letting blood from small children was considered an error “by us” but was very common ( familiarissimum) in Egypt. Moreover, in a number of pediatric cases both in Cairo and after returning to Italy, Alpino had himself prescribed bloodletting with successful results. Guilandinus’s response supplies Alpino’s experience with the endorsement of authority and textual tradition by informing him (and the reader) that even though Galen may not have encouraged bloodletting from children, “other very distinguished men in the medical art, such as Rasis, Haly, Avenzoar, Avicenna, and Celsus, thought differently.”58 In De medicina Aegyptiorum, citation of medical authorities and claims of historical transmission both served the same purpose: linking contemporary Egyptian medical practice to classical Greek or medieval Arabic medical teaching. Both types of argument also served to justify Alpino’s introduction of “Egyptian” innovations into his own practice. Yet various claims made for Egypt by Alpino and Guilandinus evidently did not persuade another distinguished physician in the same Paduan milieu who was equally interested in medicine’s origins, especially in the sense of the foundations of medical literature and medical theory. Since his own student days, Girolamo Mercuriale had known Guilandinus; Mercuriale, too, had been one of Alpino’s teachers and strongly encouraged him to publish the results of his Egyptian voyage. But in 1567, he had already been engaged in an epistolary debate with Guilandinus over Galen’s identi‹cation of the ingredients of “Egyptian ointment,” in which he defended Galen against Guilandinus’s criticisms.59 The letters between Guilandinus and Mercuriale, although lavish with mutual expressions of esteem, included nasty insinuations from Mercuriale about Guilandinus’s incompetence in philology and rival claims to have consulted superior Greek manuscripts.60 Neither this dispute nor another two years later seems to have caused lasting ill feeling, but Mercuriale’s interest in the most ancient medicine did not take the form of enthusiasm for Egypt. Instead, as already noted, he was a prominent ‹gure in the late sixteenth-century reassessment of Hippocrates.61 In Mercuriale’s works, the few comments on the contribution of Egypt to the origins of medicine are dismissive. Egypt is not even mentioned in an account of medicine’s “most ancient origin, inventors, and practitioners” that is contained in an oration he delivered upon taking up his professorial duties, probably at Padua.62 As already noted in the present study, the chapter “On the Beginnings of Medicine” that opens his De arte gymnastica informs the reader that early people had no need of medicine and knew noth-

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ing of its principles, even though Homer wrote that the Egyptians had many herbs and medicaments. Medical knowledge, according to Mercuriale, was perfected much later, by the Greeks.63 In one of his Hippocratic commentaries, he laid somewhat more emphasis on Egypt’s contribution to empirical medicine, when he asserted (citing Galen) that at the time of Hippocrates, the Egyptians preserved the remedies they had discovered by inscribing them on columns in the temple of Isis.64 Moreover, in Mercuriale’s view, whatever ancient Egypt may have contributed to the beginnings of medicine, Hellenistic Egypt had positively hindered its further progress. The Ptolemies, greedy to build up their famous library, had offered lavish rewards for copies of books by well-known authors, with the result that they had acquired numerous forgeries, especially of works attributed to Hippocrates. The later dissemination of these forgeries was, Mercuriale held, responsible for all subsequent confusion about the identity of the genuine works of Hippocrates—and hence, from the standpoint of the late sixteenth century, for confusion about the fundamental principles of medicine itself.65 Alpino placed his report on contemporary Egyptian medicine in a historical framework that simultaneously preserved claims to ancient primacy and justi‹ed current practice by the standards of medical humanism. But orthodox Galenists proved to have little use for either ancient or modern Egyptian medical wisdom. Their reservations did not simply arise from conservatism, though this doubtless played a part. One problem was probably the connotation of magic—and not necessarily only natural magic—that hung around some accounts of Egyptian medicine, as Lange’s epistles showed. Alpino, who, as already noted, had written with interest about Egyptian magic, excluded this subject (perhaps wisely) from the works on Egypt published in his lifetime.66 As the seventeenth century wore on, new developments in medicine and related sciences, in antiquarian studies, and in historical methodology all helped to diminish the signi‹cance of the quasi-mythical history of medicine before Hippocrates. In 1696, Daniel Le Clerc devoted a hundred pages of his Histoire de la médecine to perhaps the most exhaustive survey ever written of all the diverse ancient accounts of Egyptian and preHippocratic Greek medicine, but he concluded that together they amounted to very little: “Everything appears fabulous or uncertain, or at least extremely confused.” The only thing that mattered, he thought, about any of this most ancient medicine was that it evidently already included the fundamental remedies—namely, bleeding and purgation.67 Yet belief in an Egyptian genealogy of medicine lived on in a different milieu. The supposed Egyptian deity (or dei‹ed human) Hermes Trismegis-

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tus was claimed as a founding father of Paracelsian medicine and alchemy. Alchemical treatises of Arabic origin that were attributed to Hermes, of which the best known is the Tabula smaragdina, had been available in Europe since the Middle Ages (these treatises were distinct from the philosophical Hermetica esteemed by Marsilio Ficino and other Renaissance philosophers).68 Proponents of Paracelsian medicine, which drew on earlier alchemical tradition, thus acquired veneration for Hermes, while historical claims about the Egyptian origin of both alchemy and spagyric medicine served to provide a respectably ancient lineage for Paracelsian ideas and practice. Emphasis on Egyptian origins seems to have gained prominence in Paracelsian literature during the second half of the sixteenth century. Long after Isaac Casaubon demolished the authenticity and great antiquity of the philosophical Hermetica in 1614, Paracelsians continued to attribute the invention of alchemical medicine—and thus a foundation of their own principles—to Egyptian Hermes.69 The persistence of the claim in the mid-seventeenth century induced the German physician, historian, and polymath Hermann Conring to devote a lengthy treatise to attacking it. In this work, which Conring ‹rst published in 1648 and reissued in an enlarged version more than twenty years later, he brought the weight of his learning to crush the assertion that Egyptian Hermes was in any sense an ancestor or founder of either alchemy or of Paracelsian or any other medicine.70 He began by reviewing references by ancient writers to the deity (or deities) known variously as Thoth, Hermes, and Mercury, to show that none of these sources associated Hermes with medicine. He observed that ancient writers did not attribute the invention of alchemy to Hermes, who (on the euhemeristic assumption that he was originally a dei‹ed human being) was supposed to have lived around the time of the Flood. He concluded that the name and art of alchemy appeared to have emerged in late antiquity and initially to have referred only to transmutation of metals, with the ‹rst use of alchemy in medicine having been developed even later, by the Arabs. From all these things it is, unless I am mistaken, already made clearer than the sun that chemia is of recent origin. . . . But if this is extremely clear, as it is, that for the sake of which we have now brought forward all these things is still clearer, namely, that chemia has absolutely nothing to do with Hermes Trismegistus. And thus it is also clear that the popular attribution of the so-called Emerald Tablet to Hermes is a fable or, rather, simply a lie.71

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In subsequent chapters, Conring went on, following Casaubon, to insist that the surviving Hermetic philosophical corpus dated from no earlier than late antiquity; that other, magical works associated with the name of Hermes were of even more recent Arabic origin; and that the lost Hermetic books referred to by Clement of Alexandria were falsely attributed.72 Furthermore, he argued, the content of Hermetic doctrine and the history of its transmission could not be reliably determined from any surviving ancient source. Equally fallacious, in Conring’s view, was Johann Elichmann’s contention (based on his ideas about kinship among languages) that the Chaldeans and Persians as well as the Egyptians had attributed the beginnings of wisdom to Hermes, although Conring conceded that it was certainly true that “the Egyptians were not the only ones to make up fables of this kind about an inventor of one or other of the arts.”73 Finally, both the surviving misattributed Hermetic texts and references in other late ancient works suggested that any medicine associated, however incorrectly, with the name of Hermes involved not chemica but magic.74 But Conring was not content with simply obliterating the claims for Hermes as founding father. He went on to undermine, with equally devastating effectiveness, the entire notion of ancient Egyptian medical wisdom as constituting a sort of prisca sapientia of medicine. He devoted several chapters to a careful and exceptionally thorough evaluation of what could actually be learned of the history of ancient Egyptian medicine from biblical and classical Greek and Latin sources and from recent antiquarian erudition (noting, at the same time, that he was looking forward to getting further information about medicine from Athanasius Kircher’s promised interpretation of the hieroglyphs).75 Conring was sure that the ancient Egyptians, particularly their priests, had prized and practiced medicine from very early times, as evidenced by the biblical description (Genesis 50.2–3, 26) of the embalming of the patriarchs Jacob and Joseph in Egypt (assuming that this involved the services of some kind of medical practitioner); Homer’s allusion to Egyptian medicinal herbs; Herodotus’s accounts of Egyptian funeral rites, of specialization among Egyptian medical practitioners, and of the use of Egyptian physicians by the Persian rulers Cambyses and Darius; and various Hellenistic sources. Yet Conring concluded that it was unlikely that, as some ancient authors claimed, such early Greek ‹gures as Pythagoras, Democritus and, even earlier, Orpheus “learned part of their medicine in Egypt.”76 Conversely, from the time of Alexander the Great, Conring pointed out emphatically, Greek in›uences were present in Egypt itself. The famous medicine of Hellenistic Alexandria, which gave rise to such noted ‹gures as

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Herophilus and Erasistratus, was Greek, not Egyptian. The long list of celebrated Greek medical authors associated with Alexandria reached to Johannes Alexandrinus, commentator on book 6 of the Hippocratic Epidemics, whom Conring dated, more or less correctly, to the sixth century CE. In sum, Conring concluded that the Greeks “introduced their medicine into Egypt” but “did not use the ancient Egyptian medicine.” As for the Persians, Conring argued that they may have tried out Egyptian medicine but that they soon learned to prefer that of the Greeks. In Conring’s view, ancient Egyptian medicine, such as it was, did not survive the introduction of Christianity and the closing of the Egyptian temples (where this priestly medicine was practiced) in the fourth century CE.77 Thus, in addition to repudiating Egyptian Hermes as a founder of medicine or alchemy, Conring also completely rejected the notion, still cherished by Alpino, of some form of historical continuity between the most ancient Egyptian medicine and the Greek and Hellenistic medicine that succeeded it. On the whole, Conring had a good case. Yet the extent of the debts, if any, of Greek to Egyptian medicine was still being debated in the late twentieth century, despite the access of modern scholars to papyrus and archaeological evidence unavailable to their sixteenth- and seventeenth-century predecessors. It seems clear, however, that although Egyptian medicine enjoyed renown in antiquity and although Egypt (together with the Near East in general) was certainly a source of medicinal ingredients in the ancient Mediterranean world, the development of Greek medical theory and argument was separate and distinct.78 Instead of postulating continuity between ancient Egyptian and Greek medicine, Conring insisted on continuity between the Greek medicine of Hellenistic Alexandria and the medicine of Egypt under Muslim rule. He asserted, correctly, that Greek medicine continued to be held in esteem by the Arabs, who sought out translations of Greek medical books into their own language. He also observed that Greek medicine was not completely lacking even in contemporary Egypt, as was “abundantly established from the outstanding work of Prospero Alpino”—an invocation of Alpino’s testimony that manages wholly to elide his remarks about the unbookish nature of contemporary Egyptian medical practice.79 In this way, whatever Alpino’s own intentions, Conring made him serve as an important witness against both the high original signi‹cance of the medicine of ancient Egypt and its survival. Conring went on to analyze such information about the content of ancient Egyptian medicine as could be gathered from Greek and Latin

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sources—among them Herodotus, Pliny, Censorinus, and Firmicus Maternus—and from Horapollo. Since his ancient sources characterized the Egyptians as long-lived, he gave them, rather hesitantly, some credit for an understanding of diseases and for a healthy lifestyle. But he took an extremely negative view of Egyptian knowledge of anatomy and physiology. He argued that even though Egyptian funerary practices regularly involved opening the body and hence might be expected to have yielded some information about the human body, Egyptian knowledge of internal anatomy remained crude and erroneous; that Egyptian physicians never recorded observations approaching those of Herophilus and Erasistratus, let alone Galen; and that the Egyptians’ low level of anatomical knowledge was demonstrated by the Egyptian belief, recorded by Pliny, that the human heart lost weight as the body aged. He claimed that Egyptian dissection failed to yield signi‹cant anatomical information for two reasons: it was always carried out as a stage in the process of embalming rather than with the objective, “as is the custom with us,” of anatomical investigation; and those who did the actual dissecting were mortuary workers rather than real physicians. As inadequate as Egyptian understanding of anatomy, argued Conring, were Egyptian ideas about external forces affecting the human body and about its physiology, especially their groundless beliefs in thirty-six separate demons controlling thirty-six separate parts of the body and in astrology (the latter no longer required confutation, Conring thought, since Pico della Mirandola had done so effectively). Perhaps the ancient Egyptians might have originated the doctrine of man as microcosm, but Conring considered it “futile” in any case.80 He was no kinder to ancient Egyptian therapy, arguing that no prudent physician could commend the Egyptians’ excessive use of laxatives and emetics. He found no evidence that they had ever used chemically prepared or mineral medicines or made much use of metals or gems; their medicine was herbal. Conring claimed that although Egypt was indeed universally believed in antiquity to be a source of valuable medicinal plants, these were not, in reality, very numerous, as Alpino’s work showed. Most important, argued Conring, ancient Egyptian medicine was inextricably involved with the cult of demons, superstition, magic, and incantations.81 Conring returned to this charge repeatedly. Against Lange (whom he cited by name), he insisted that Egyptian medicine was not a form of magia naturalis (depending on hidden forces in nature) but a fully demonic magic.82 Conring’s analysis of the available sources of information about ancient Egyptian medicine was clearly a much more serious historical undertaking

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than Alpino’s endeavor to provide a historical framework for his own experiences in Egypt. But just as much as either Belon’s or Alpino’s work, Conring’s history of Egyptian medicine addressed modern medical concerns in his homeland. Conring pressed history into the service of anti-Paracelsianism; and, not surprisingly, his book moved one Paracelsian to an indignant reply. In 1674, Oluf Borch published a 448-page opus titled The Wisdom of Hermes of the Egyptians and the Chemists Vindicated against the Animadversions of Hermann Conring.83 He devoted its ‹rst book to insisting that Hermes had invented medicine and to expatiating on the anatomical and botanical prowess and all-around wisdom of the ancient Egyptians. In the second book, he defended every aspect of Paracelsian medicine. Writing in 1696, Le Clerc still found it necessary to deny that chemically prepared medicines had been invented in ancient Egypt by Hermes Trismegistus.84 The multiplicity of ancient sources alluding to ancient Egyptian medicine, none of which provided very extensive information about it, left sixteenth- and seventeenthcentury physicians free to judge its signi‹cance according to their own preconceptions and preferences. In these circumstances, accounts of Egyptian medicine were almost always profoundly conditioned not only by attitudes toward the notion of prisca sapientia, toward magic, toward alchemy, and toward ancient Egypt in general but also, usually, by current medical debates and the professional or academic situation of the author.

civil histories In 1587, a young physician recently returned from service to the Venetian consul and merchant community in Aleppo published a substantial contribution to the history of the contemporary Middle East. Giovanni Tommaso Minadoi of Rovigo’s History of the War between the Turks and the Persians describes the con›ict in the Caucasus and eastern Anatolia between the Ottoman sultan Murad III and the Safavid ruler Mohammed Khodabanda, tracing events from the outbreak of war in 1578 to the mid-1580s. The con›ict was a complicated one, involving Murad III’s efforts to extend his territory and sphere of in›uence at the expense of the Safavids in a period of confusion following the death of Shah Tahmasp; it also drew in various autonomous or semiautonomous rulers of Georgia and other nearby regions.85 Minadoi’s endeavor to relate the history of this ongoing war was an undertaking that was doubtless personal and original but also, to some extent, of‹cially sponsored. As he himself made clear, his historical work received not just encouragement but signi‹cant material support from Venice’s of‹cial representatives in Aleppo.

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My project was helped by three special and extraordinary means: the authority of Teodoro Balbi and Giovanni Michiel, consuls of the Venetian Senate in Syria . . . , who, without sparing expense, helped me in this and in every kind of study that I undertook in those countries; my association with Cristoforo de Boni, the ‹rst interpreter to these illustrious gentlemen . . . ; and the science of medicine, which I did not hesitate to practice among those people in order to be able to penetrate into the most secret and important counsels without arousing any suspicion and to acquire familiarity with the leading households of those cities in which I resided for almost seven years on end.86 Although Minadoi’s work represents an immediate response to current events, it also belongs to several larger contexts. First, his engagement with contemporary military history, like his appreciation of the opportunities for information gathering offered by medical practice, appears less anomalous when considered in the light of requirements and expectations of physicians in Venetian service in the Ottoman Empire. Second, Minadoi’s history of a single series of campaigns has a broader political background in an already long-standing European—and speci‹cally Venetian—awareness of OttomanSafavid border con›icts and religious differences, viewed as potentially bene‹cial to European interests. At the same time, traditions of historical, ethnographic, and geographical writing extending back to classical antiquity but strongly reinforced in the Renaissance continued to shape even the most present-minded accounts of the lands and peoples of western and central Asia, Minadoi’s among them. Hence, each of these contexts merits some further consideration in situating Minadoi’s historical work. Minadoi ‹rst went to Syria in 1576, just two years after graduating in medicine from the University of Padua, where he had been among the students of Girolamo Mercuriale. He went abroad in the service of Teodoro Balbi, the newly appointed Venetian consul in Aleppo. (Among Venetian representatives in the Ottoman Empire, the consul in the trading center of Aleppo was second most important.) After a brief interval back in Italy, Minadoi returned to the East in the service of Balbi’s successor Giovanni Michiel. Like Alpino, Minadoi was thus one of the medici condotti engaged by the consuls who protected the interests of resident Venetian merchants in major cities of the Ottoman Empire. Venetian statutes authorized any consul appointed to Syria to select a physician, surgeon, and pharmacist and provided for their salaries.87 But while the medici condotti in Syria were brought from Venice, the physician chosen to serve the bailo, the most important Venetian of‹cial

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in the Ottoman Empire, located in Constantinople, was for most of the sixteenth century chosen from among the numerous Jewish physicians (many of them of Iberian origin) in the Ottoman capital. Not until 1598 did the Venetian Senate permit a newly appointed bailo to select a physician in Venice to accompany him to Constantinople.88 In Syria, the presence of Venetian medici condotti was already well established a century before Minadoi’s appointment. For example, the poet and humanist Girolamo Ramusio (uncle of the editor of a famous collection of voyages) was appointed medico condotto to the Venetian merchant community in Damascus in 1483. As Minadoi was later to do, Ramusio went to the Levant shortly after studying medicine at Padua. But unlike Minadoi, Ramusio may not have completed a medical doctorate, since he characterized himself in his will as “professor,” rather than “doctor,” of medicine.89 Ramusio died only three years after his appointment and was succeeded at Damascus by another recent product of Paduan medical education, Andrea Alpago, who remained in Syria for some thirty years. Alpago’s long tenure in an overseas medical appointment differed from the career pattern followed by Minadoi, Alpino, and others, who served relatively brie›y with one of the Venetian consulates and merchant communities in the Ottoman Empire in the early stages of their medical careers. Minadoi returned to Italy to become medico condotto at Udine. There, he wrote a set of “medical disputations,” the ‹rst of which used medical arguments and authorities to prove an essentially theological point—namely, that Christ’s bloody sweat was not a natural phenomenon and therefore must have been supernatural. After parting with the city government of Udine on very bad terms, Minadoi became professor of medicina practica at the University of Padua, a position he held for almost twenty years.90 At Padua, he wrote a number of works related to his teaching of practical medicine; the most interesting of these may be a treatise on conditions affecting the exterior appearance of the body, ranging from hair loss to obesity. In it, he sternly announced his intention to discuss only ways of restoring “the natural splendor of health,” ‹rmly repudiating any arti‹cial aids to beauty. The choice of subject matter may re›ect the in›uence of his teacher Mercuriale, whose interest in similar topics has already been noted.91 As the case of Alpino has already made clear, physicians in Venetian service in the Middle East pursued a variety of intellectual interests, in addition to medical practice among the local as well as the European communities. Both Girolamo Ramusio and Alpago used their time for projects characteristic of one aspect of medical humanism in Padua and the Veneto: an endeavor

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to produce improved Latin versions of standard Arabic medical texts ‹rst translated into Latin in the Middle Ages and still widely in›uential in European schools. For this purpose, both men gained some command of Arabic. Ramusio’s translation of the ‹rst part of Avicenna’s Canon of Medicine was never printed, although the manuscript was a resource for later editors of that work. Alpago acquired renown and, on his return from the East, a professorship of medical practica at the University of Padua by producing an emended and annotated edition of the twelfth-century translation of the Canon, accompanied by an Arabic-Latin glossary of key terms.92 Alpago’s edition and glossary, which was published posthumously in 1527, found critics as well as admirers. One of the critics was Alpino, for he was keenly interested in the Arabic language. During his time in Egypt, besides seeking out Arabic medical texts, he devised his own transliteration system and wrote appreciatively of the Arabic linguistic learning of his predecessor as Venetian medico condotto in Egypt, Iacopo Manni, who had compiled corrections to Alpago’s glossary.93 It is also clear that whatever the other interests and activities of physicians in Venetian service in Ottoman territory, part of their value for Venetian of‹cials was often as sources of political information and contacts. Thus, as Francesca Lucchetta has shown, the Jewish physicians engaged by the bailo in Constantinople were prized precisely because they also had engagements to serve Turkish of‹cials or access to the palace.94 Venetian physicians in Syria who collected and transmitted information ‹tted partly into the older pattern of the physician as general, as well as medical, adviser to rulers or other powerful patrons; partly into developing systems of circulating news; and partly into the sixteenth-century world of diplomatic intelligence shading off into espionage. Thus, between 1504 and 1514, Andrea Alpago sent a series of letters to Venetian individuals and of‹cials containing political and commercial news from Damascus that he had obtained by questioning merchants and others. In these letters, subsequently included in Marino Sanuto’s Diary, he reported on such current concerns as Portuguese economic expansion in the East; the rise of the ‹rst Safavid ruler of Persia, Shah Ismail; and growing hostility between the Ottoman and Safavid regimes.95 Alpago’s contemporary Giovanni Francesco Rota, a young medical or surgical practitioner attached to the consulate of Aleppo in the early years of the century, composed a mostly laudatory account and verbal portrait of Ismail, also apparently based on interviews with merchants who had traveled to Persia. Rota’s narrative, presented in the form of a letter to the doge, was ‹rst published in 1508 and subsequently translated into German and French; it circulated widely in

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Europe. Its author later returned to Italy and became a professor of surgery at the University of Bologna from 1546 until his death in 1558; his other principal work is a treatise on gunshot wounds, espousing the view that they represented a kind of poisoning.96 The idea that physicians abroad might transmit political or commercial information to their masters was not peculiar to Venice. The editor of Belon’s Cronique, for example, has suggested that his various travels in Europe may have been undertaken as clandestine missions on the part of the French crown.97 The case of the unfortunate—and probably innocent—Dr. Lopez, executed in 1594 for plotting against Queen Elizabeth on behalf of the Spanish, also comes to mind in this connection. Against this background, neither Minadoi’s interest in current Eastern politics and contemporary history nor his willingness to gather information from his patients on behalf of the Venetian authorities seems unusual. But striking indeed is the extent and depth of his commitment to contemporary history and the degree of of‹cial support and encouragement that he received. Consul Giovanni Michiel in particular clearly reposed con‹dence in Minadoi, twice sending him on missions to Constantinople to present grievances of the Venetian “nation” in Aleppo against local Turkish authorities. Even further, Minadoi was also intimately involved—indeed, he was a collaborator—in one of Michiel’s central diplomatic tasks. Lucia Samaden, who has demonstrated a series of extremely close correspondences between passages in Minadoi’s Historia and Michiel’s of‹cial relazione of events of the war, has persuasively suggested that Minadoi supplied the consul not only with the results of his researches but probably also with the text of the relazione itself.98 Turning to the broader political background of Minadoi’s Historia, one may note that its opening lines tie the work to a view of Ottoman-Safavid relations present in European commentary on Eastern affairs since the beginning of the century: “I write of the events of the war between the Turkish king Murad and Mohammed, surnamed Khodabanda, the Persian king, both of them extremely powerful and warlike princes among the barbarians. This war has been not only long and bloody but also most convenient and opportune for the Republica Christiana.”99 Ottoman-Sava‹d hostility dated back to the consolidation of Safavid rule in Persia and the imposition of Shiism under Shah Ismail (reigned 1501–24). At that time, early reports about Shah Ismail and the emergence of the Safavid empire inspired hopes in western Europe that Persia might be a check on Ottoman power or even an ally against the Ottomans. (In the previous century, the existence of the powerful Ak Koyunlu Turcoman confederation led by Uzun Hasan on the Ottoman east-

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ern frontier had been the focus of similar hopes.)100 As it turned out, Selim I’s ‹erce campaigns against the Safavids culminated in the decisive Ottoman victory at the Battle of Chaldiran (1514), and the expansion of the Ottoman Empire continued, with the conquest of Syria (1516), Egypt (1517), Rhodes (1522), and Cyprus (1571) and the advance into Hungary (capture of Buda, 1541). Meanwhile, Ottomans and Safavids established spheres of in›uence in Anatolia and the Caucasus and clashed in another brief war in the 1550s. The next major outbreak of hostilities was the war recorded by Minadoi.101 But as V. J. Parry remarked, “The belief that in the armies, ‹rst of the Ak Koyunlu, and later of the Safavids there might be found an apt instrument to hinder the Ottoman advance against Christendom became engrained in the political consciousness of Europe.”102 As is well known and has already become evident here, a constant ›ow of reports from many different sources throughout the sixteenth century brought to Italy news of political and military affairs in the eastern Mediterranean and Middle East. In this material, accounts of Safavid Persia by travelers, merchants, and others tended to focus on con›icts with the Ottoman Empire.103 In turn, some of this information was incorporated into a variety of other works. For example, the historical popularizer Francesco Sansovino was able to list twenty recent (i.e., ‹fteenth- and early sixteenth-century) authors, most of them Italian, on whom he had drawn for his muchreprinted history of the Ottoman Empire.104 Paolo Giovio devoted a substantial section of his widely known, if often criticized, general history to Shah Ismail, his domains, and his relations with the Ottomans. Notwithstanding Bodin’s accusation that Giovio relied on rumor in depicting Turkish and Persian affairs, he seems to have endeavored to ‹nd as much good information as possible on which to base his account.105 Writing soon after news of the Battle of Chaldiran reached Italy, he provided a lengthy description of the campaign and the battle; contrasted Ismail’s personal character, appearance, family, and religious convictions favorably with those of Selim; and stressed the vast extent of the Persian Empire. He attributed the Ottoman victory to superior civil administration, ‹nance, military organization, and equipment, noting not only the Turks’ greater numbers and use of artillery but also the “incomparable discipline” of Selim’s army.106 He ruefully compared the religious component in Ottoman-Safavid warfare and the use of religion to cover political and economic motives with Europe’s wars of religion. First of all (as is clearly established), over and above the mutual hatred of the two peoples handed down from their fathers and grandfathers,

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they have been led by insane persuasion to quarrel among themselves about religious beliefs. . . . Although, with ill-concealed greed, they struggled by different routes for the same goal, namely, that with strengthened and increased riches the boundaries of their kingdoms might be extended as widely as possible. . . . Through the not dissimilar plague of disturbed religion recently unloosed by Luther we also see Christian peoples ‹ghting each other, as if some malign star envied peace and tranquillity in this wretched century.107 Minadoi’s Historia is neither a report on current events (whatever his part in Michiel’s relazione) nor a general history. Rather, it is a monographic history of a single (and ongoing) war. Yet his theme and argument ‹tted easily into the preexisting European assumptions and forms of writing about Ottoman-Safavid relations just described. The opening paragraph of his work (quoted earlier) continues with the explanation for why the war between Murad and Mohammed Khodabanda was “convenient and very opportune for the Republica Christiana”: “It gave the champions of Christ time to refresh themselves and renew their forces weakened by both foreign and civil wars. [The outbreak of this war] was really a work more divine than human, inasmuch as it gave the Turks new hopes of victories, with which, contrary to the usual course of similar contentions, the wrath of these princes was carried off to distant regions, which if it had been turned on Europe could have thrown our condition into turmoil.”108 The other enduring theme of encouraging Christian rulers to take up arms against the Turks—and, indeed, the rhetoric of the crusade—is also quite strongly present in Minadoi’s work, which he dedicated to Pope Sixtus V. Minadoi hoped that his history would “animate Christian princes to take up arms against barbarians under whose rule famous and once powerful nations are reduced,” and he lavished enthusiastic praise on Tasso’s recently published epic of the First Crusade, Gerusalemme liberata.109 But whereas Minadoi’s historical enterprise is readily placed in comtemporary professional and political contexts, the relation of his work to the classicizing, antiquarian, and (in some cases) linguistic interests characteristic of humanistically educated medical (and other) travelers to and historians of the Middle East seems more complex. As Minadoi explained in the dedicatory letter to Sixtus V prefaced to the revised edition of his work, he prepared the ‹rst edition of the Historia (published in Rome in 1587) in great haste, over a two-month period, in the heat of the Roman summer and while he was suffering from fever. Indeed, the ‹rst edition gives the impression of a bare-

Fig. 8. Title page of the revised edition of Giovanni Tommaso Minadoi’s Historia della guerra fra Turchi, et Persiani published in Venice in 1588, clarifying the author’s intention to cover the religious and cultural history and the geography of the Middle East, as well as the ongoing war. (By permission of Houghton Library, Harvard University.)

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bones narrative of military campaigns, with minimal display of classical erudition and very little except an alphabetical index and a two-page glossary (mostly of Turkish terms for military and administrative positions) to help the reader ‹nd the way through a dense narrative and a confusing multitude of personal names and place-names. As a consequence, once Minadoi was “reinvigorated by the domestic and native air” (nel nativo, e domestico aere rinvigorito) of Rovigo, he decided to revise the work.110 The nature of the revisions he incorporated into the second edition, published in Venice in 1588, reveals a good deal about his conception of his task. In the ‹rst place, he added new factual material: a section on Persian administration and an account of the most recent phase of the war known to him. Then he decided to have mercy on his readers by dividing the four long books of the ‹rst edition into nine, adding a helpful summary of the content at the beginning of each book, and lengthening the glossary.111 At the same time, he enhanced the work’s erudite content, presumably because he now had access to books that were not available in Syria and that were unconsulted during that ‹rst summer in Rome, when he lacked the time. Minadoi’s medical works, all in Latin and all published in the last phase of his career, when he was a professor of practical medicine at Padua, leave no doubt as to the thoroughness of his humanistic medical education or his devotion to ancient Greek and Latin authors—chie›y medical, of course, but also philosophers and poets.112 Yet neither the ‹rst nor the revised edition of Minadoi’s Historia follows the well-worn route of describing classical or Christian antiquities in the Ottoman lands or expatiating on the Renaissance historiography that traced the descent of the Turks to the Scythians or other “barbarians” described by ancient authors. It did not occur to Minadoi, as it did to Giovio, to compare the territorial ambitions of Persian and Turkish rulers with those of Darius and Alexander the Great.113 The only chronologically distant history to which he devoted much attention was the life of the prophet Muhammad, of which he provided a hostile account, and the origins of the split between Sunni and Shia (he criticized Giovio for assuming that this split was of recent origin, a criticism perhaps based on a misreading of Giovio).114 He did not show any signs of Alpago’s or Alpino’s interest in Arabic medical texts in the original language. In his medical works, he introduced frequent and approving citations of medieval Arabic medical authors (in their Latin dress); but these, like his oration in praise of Avicenna, seem related more to his habitual opposition to innovation in medical teaching, expressed in the shape of repeated criticisms of such recent novatores as Fernel and Argenterio, than to his experiences in Syria.115 Instead, he applied

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classical erudition to just one aspect of the revised edition of his Historia. As he said, “I undertook some useful effort regarding geography (qualche non inutile fatica intorno alla geogra‹a), especially the recognition of places.”116 Accordingly, the revised edition came equipped with a map; a second glossary giving equivalents of ancient and modern place-names; references to the views on the names and location of cities of both ancient and recent or contemporary travelers, historians, and geographers; and, at the end, a ‹fteen-page epistle addressed to Mario Corrado in defense of Minadoi’s contention that “Tauris” (i.e., Tabriz, the ‹rst Safavid capital) was to be identi‹ed with the ancient Ecbatana.117 In short, in the revised edition of the Historia, the enhanced attention to ancient sources was primarily focused on one speci‹c theme, that of geography, with the particular aim of ‹tting the descriptions and place-names of ancient historians and geographers—primarily Herodotus and Strabo—onto the topography of the contemporary Middle East. As already noted, Minadoi spent most of his time overseas in Aleppo, whence he several times traveled to Constantinople; he also visited Jerusalem (having an unpleasant encounter with some Bedouin on the way).118 He was presumably always far from the theater of war. Yet he questioned merchants, of‹cials, and soldiers in Syria and Constantinople about the movements of generals and armies in eastern Anatolia and the Caucasus, and he made great efforts to relate their information both to classical geography and to the work of Ortelius and other modern mapmakers. Inevitably, he made mistakes: in particular, the ancient Ecbatana, capital of the Medes, is identi‹ed not with Tabriz but with Hamadan, much further to the south. Minadoi was explicit and defensive about his historical and geographical methodology and about the problems he encountered. I met with many dif‹culties and troubles, both because of the ignorance of the people, who did not know any other than the barbarian names for cities, regions, plains, rivers, mountains, which made the recognition of the places where this war was waged very dif‹cult; also because I had to pay attention to the kind of people [I was interviewing], some of whom were liars, who were accustomed to say many things and keep quiet about many others, as it accorded with their particular interests. But I tried my best to ful‹ll my task as well as possible, overcoming these and other dif‹culties by assiduity in asking different people in different places, in order to ‹nd out whether they were in agreement, and with waiting so that time itself would bring forth the truth; nor did I content myself with either the ‹rst or the second

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report, [always trying] to justify the ‹rst with the last, by comparing the testimony from one and the other side; and ‹nally, by endeavoring without regard to risk, expense, or fatigue, to get as many details as possible from men considered more truthful and more authoritative, and who had been most closely involved in those affairs.119 This seems an admirable recipe for news gathering and indeed for oral history. Minadoi’s conviction of the superiority of his own methods and access to ‹rsthand information led him to pour much scorn on other, unnamed authors who had written on Eastern affairs. I would have ‹nished this book [book 2] at this point, if I had not been brought some books, some in French, some in Latin, some titled Commentaries, others History, by various authors, more poets than historians as far as I could see, in which I found so many defects, about the [different] beliefs of the Persians and the Turks about their false religion [i.e., the division between Shia and Sunni Muslims], about the identi‹cation of ancient cities, about the dates and sequence of events, about the factions themselves, about the movements of the armies, and many other particulars, that I thought it my duty to warn all future readers, both of these books and of my own history, that they need to be very cautious in reading such compositions.120 Regardless of the self-satisfaction revealed in these smug remarks, it is clear that Minadoi’s close relation with the Venetian consulate in Syria really did give him access to some well-informed individuals. Most of them were presumably Turkish, but at least one was Persian. Minadoi’s information about the organization of Safavid Persia almost certainly came from a former Safavid ambassador who had defected to the Ottomans and been appointed governor of Aleppo.121 In Minadoi’s own day, his history met with a considerable measure of deserved success. As a newsworthy account of a signi‹cant con›ict in a remote part of the world, it was, as already noted, printed eight times in thirteen years and translated into Spanish, English, German, and Latin. It also served as a source for two other early seventeenth-century works on Turkish and Persian history. One of these was Richard Knolles’s History of the Turks, also reprinted several times; another was Alfonso Remon’s reworking of the narrative of a convert to Catholicism from Shia Islam, known as Juan de Persia. More recent scholars of Middle Eastern history, too, have on the whole

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given Minadoi credit both for his energetic efforts to gather and evaluate information and for the general reliability of much of his narrative.122 Yet one aspect of his work to which he attached much importance—and that by which he chie›y demonstrated his humanistic erudition—earned sharp criticism from contemporaries: his identi‹cations of ancient Greek place-names with modern Turkish and Persian ones. Minadoi’s attention to ancient geographers as such was not in any way anomalous; by the late sixteenth century, some European mapmakers were beginning to be less reliant on ancient authority for the geography of the Middle East, but authors of narrative works continued to invoke the ancient writers.123 Rather, Minadoi’s opponents questioned speci‹c identi‹cations. The debate, which ranged across a number of place-names (only one of which must serve as the example here), is again instructive about Minadoi’s methodology and assumptions. Replying to Mario Corrado’s objection to the assimilation of contemporary Tauris (Tabriz) to ancient Ecbatana, Minadoi pointed out that since possession of the city was a major objective in the war he was describing, its correct location and historical identi‹cation were important to his history.124 In this and other instances, he defended his argument about the location of an ancient city by drawing on modern as well as ancient geographers, on recent travel accounts, and on his local informants. For the identi‹cation of Tauris with Ecbatana, he appealed ‹rst to the authority of the mapmaker Ortelius and of Giovanni Lorenzo d’Anania, author of a treatise on world geography that was reprinted several times; indeed, the map in Ortelius’s widely disseminated atlas clearly marked “Tauris” (Tabriz) with the additional caption “formerly Ecbatana, capital of the king of the Persians.”125 Minadoi then went on to list twelve reasons in refutation of Giovio’s contention that Tauris was to be equated with the ancient Terva (Yerevan in Armenian). Some of these reasons relied on Strabo’s description of natural features and on latitudes of cities given by Ptolemy, but for information about contemporary routes, directions, and length of journey, Minadoi mostly drew on information provided by merchants and soldiers, as well as by the Venetian travel accounts in Giovanni Battista Ramusio’s collection. Minadoi also pointed out, with the support of numerous examples, that while some modern place-names retained echoes of the ancient ones, this was by no means always the case.126 Minadoi’s arguments about Tauris and Ecbatana and about several other ancient and modern names set him at odds with Johann Löwenklau (Leunclavius), a noted German scholar both in Byzantine history and law and in Turkish studies. Löwenklau, who had visited Istanbul and collected Turkish materials, published two major works on Ottoman history that presented

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Latin translations of Turkish chronicles supplemented by information from his own researches. In the ‹rst of these, which appeared in 1588, the same year as the revised version of Minadoi’s Historia, he had denied the identi‹cation of Tabriz with Ecbatana, resting his arguments for the equally mistaken view that Tabriz was in Armenia on statements by Giovio, the Byzantine historian Cedrenus, and the medieval princely traveler Hayton of Armenia.127 Consequently, when Minadoi’s work came to his attention, he enlarged his comments to include explicit criticism of Minadoi by name, as well as to make fun of Minadoi’s lengthy and laboriously assembled arguments—with the remark that Minadoi wrote as if he were defending hearth and altar.128 Stung into, as he said, “vast indignation” (“ingens quaedam indignatio cepit me”), Minadoi fought back with a Latin disputatio adorned with a ›urry of learned literary citations from Greek dramatists and a display of Byzantine historical erudition perhaps meant to match Löwenklau’s own.129 As before, Minadoi failed to prove his main contention but made some good methodological points along the way. He objected strongly to the German scholar’s apparent assumption that an appeal to medieval chroniclers was suf‹cient to counter carefully thought-out “mathematical reasons”—that is, considerations based on direction and length of time of travel.130 He reiterated that consideration of geographical sources and problems was not frivolous or extraneous in his history, because knowledge of the location of “Tauris” was essential for understanding where the war was waged. He drew attention to the fact that rather than simply relying on ancient geographers, he had carried out his own personal investigations. In any case, he argued, all historiographers recommended and all good historians practiced that battles should be named for the site where they happened and that any controversy over the location of the site should be resolved.131 He insisted that Löwenklau’s preferred authority, the eleventh-century Byzantine chronicler Cedrenus, was an unreliable source of information about the names of regions in which cities were located: not only did Suidas not list Cedrenus as a historian, but Cedrenus wrote little on political matters and a great deal on monastic and religious affairs, and he showed no evidence in his work of having studied geography. As for Prince Hayton of Armenia, he undoubtedly had personal knowledge of his own realm, but there was no reason to suppose that he knew classical geography or could relate current local names for cities and regions to ancient names: “in such controversial matters I shall require not noble descent but erudition, and skill in geography.”132 In endeavoring to match ancient and contemporary place-names in the borderlands of the Ottoman and Safavid empires, Minadoi undertook a task

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that neither he nor perhaps any sixteenth-century European scholar was equipped to handle. But what seems most notable about his history and his treatises in defense of it is less his humanistic erudition—piled on more thickly in each succeeding publication—than his self-conscious and explicit attention to historical methodology. Despite his occasional references to ancient historians and to unnamed “historiographers,” this awareness seems to have relatively little to do with classical tradition and much more to do with his own experience of researching and making sense of contemporary political and military history. The purpose of his Historia was immediate and political, the product of a man who, at least for that period of his life, subsumed his medical profession in service to the Venetian state. The ways in which sixteenth-century physicians wrote of the history and antiquities of the lands of the eastern Mediterranean were as diverse as the men themselves. Yet some common features emerge. Physicians, like other humanistically educated individuals, were drawn to the antiquities of Egypt because of the general reputation of Egypt as a land of wonders; but for medical men, Egypt also had speci‹c disciplinary connotations. In the age of humanism, claims for Egyptian medicine in Greek and Hellenistic sources carried considerable authority. Furthermore, the origins and early history of medicine, the supposed connection of Hermes Trismegistus with alchemical medicine, the proper identi‹cation and usefulness of speci‹c remedies ranging from medicinal plants to mumia—all these debatable and debated topics could refer back to ancient Egypt. But where the content of medicine was concerned, a look backward to the ancient past usually fostered a highly presentist agenda, as (in different ways) Belon’s account of mumia and Conring’s diatribe against Paracelsian claims both testify. A different medical motivation to look to the East for medical history appears in the interest in Arabic medical texts. Despite the emphasis on Greek medicine (and occasional antiArabism) characteristic of medical humanism, Arabo-Latin books were still widely taught in the medical faculties of European universities throughout the sixteenth century. The search by physicians in both Egypt and the Levant (Alpago and Alpino among them) for Arabic manuscripts and for better understanding of these traditional teaching texts was perhaps more an effort to reform medicine’s present than to investigate its past, but it also clearly has a historical component (particularly in the case of Alpino). Very different in character are the works devoted to the Ottomans by physician historians. They re›ect little or nothing of their authors’ medical or scienti‹c interests and are wholly focused on political and military affairs.

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Giovio’s universal, or general, history was of course written after he had left the practice of medicine behind him. The Turks played a large part in his work, as they must in any account of the international politics of the time, but he was far from having any direct contact with the Ottoman world (as his critics did not hesitate to point out). By contrast, Minadoi’s historical writing is sharply limited in scope and more immediately connected to the author’s own experience, though hardly a ‹rsthand account. It is in fact closely tied to his medical profession, not by anything in the content (other than the presence of a few references to outbreaks of plague), but by his position as medico condotto to the Venetian consulate in Aleppo, which provided him with the location, resources, and access to the informants that made his work possible.

CONCLUSION: MEDICINE, HISTORY, AND THE CHANGING FACE OF SCIENTIFIC KNOWLED GE

O

ver the span of two centuries covered by this book, profound changes took place in European politics, society, and intellectual life. The Europe of absolutist and confessional states, already on the threshold of early Enlightenment and new science and inhabited by such ‹gures as Naudé and Conring, was in almost all respects a very different place from that known to the medical humanists of the early Renaissance. By the mid- and later seventeenth century, types of learning that had characterized history, medicine, and the relation between them for much of the intervening period were also beginning a process of transformation. The long life of commentary on and exposition of ancient medical texts as useful guides to current medical practice was gradually coming to an end, while new experimental investigations and new theories were radically revising physiology. Exemplary history was giving way to historical criticism, and changing canons of criticism and research were beginning to transform medical life writing and doxography into a new genre of history of medicine. But from the ‹fteenth until the early seventeenth centuries, traditions of Renaissance learning—most notably humanist veneration for and greatly enhanced knowledge of antiquity, a strong commitment to teaching by expounding ancient texts, and the belief that past example could have both 261

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contemporary practical application and moral value—powerfully shaped both history and medicine. Both history and medicine provided narratives of the human past (whether individual or collective, ancient or recent) that were claimed as simultaneously true and exemplary. At least in the hands of many practitioners, both disciplines combined a fundamentally empirical orientation with a strong commitment to ancient texts as models and practical guides. Both ›ourished in the context of a world of learning in which the boundaries between humanistic disciplines were relatively open and indeterminate; polymathic erudition and schemes of universal history embracing all forms of human knowledge were greatly prized, especially as the sixteenth century wore on; and later notions of specialization and of clear separation between scienti‹c and humanistic ‹elds were largely absent. In institutional terms, the humanistic education in Latin and rhetoric (often still considered to include history) provided in preparatory schools and the arts faculties of universities was common to future physicians as well as other students. Yet during these two centuries, important developments speci‹c to history and historiography also took place. A few, but signi‹cant, critiques of exemplary history appeared. The disciplinary and institutional identity of history was strengthened by the publication of treatises on the ars historica and the establishment of the ‹rst university chairs in history. In the hands of legal scholars and others, history began to acquire a stronger documentary and research basis. Finally, the geographical, chronological, and thematic scope of history was greatly expanded as a result of wider knowledge of the world, protonationalistic interest in the medieval history of northern Europe, and the religious crisis of the Reformation. Moreover, for all medicine’s connections with history and other humanistic branches of learning, there were also important respects in which medicine stood decidedly apart from them. Medicine was a long established higher faculty in the universities at a time when chairs in history were only just beginning to be introduced in a few places; graduation in medicine constituted a formal, professional quali‹cation; medical theory retained links with natural philosophy; and medical expertise required mastery of craftsmanlike techniques and skills as well as of a substantial body of specialized literature. And it hardly needs to be emphasized that in the age of Vesalius and Harvey, a signi‹cant number of physicians devoted themselves to direct, hands-on investigations in anatomy, physiology, botany, and natural history, considerably enlarging those ‹elds of knowledge as a result. But even in academic settings, the individuals who pursued these original investigations remained in the minority, while throughout the period (and

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long thereafter) medical practice for the most part followed traditional lines. For many (perhaps a plurality of) university-educated physicians—and certainly for many of those described in the preceding chapters—bookish erudition encompassing not only medicine but also other humanistic ‹elds was a major ingredient both in professional self-image and in professional success, as measured by such indicators as court patronage and evidences of wealth. Indeed, the patronage of rulers seems often to have favored court physicians who were able to turn their hands—or, rather, their pens—to a variety of literary tasks in addition to practicing medicine. Testimony to the humanistic and historical tastes of such physicians—and, in some instances, to the expenditure of considerable sums of money to support such interests— comes not only from their own works but also from inventories of their libraries, as in the cases of Mercuriale and Sambucus. In the world of Renaissance medicine, prestigious appointments at two of the most important courts in Europe came equally to the practicing investigative and innovative anatomist Andreas Vesalius and to his contemporary Wolfgang Lazius, physician historian and physician antiquary. The material discussed in the previous chapters seems to me to support three closely interconnected main arguments. First, as just noted, despite obvious, real, and important differences between the two disciplines, ‹fteenth- through mid-seventeenth-century history and medicine made use of many of the same methods and shared some fundamental concepts. Second, as a result, the understanding of medical humanism needs to be broadened, even beyond the already wide range of meanings of the term and concept in the context of the history of medical knowledge. Third, the range of interests and activities of Renaissance and early modern physicians merits the attention of intellectual historians. Obviously, many developments in ‹fteenth- to seventeenth-century medicine cannot be attributed to the in›uence of humanism or, indeed, to that of intellectual factors of any kind, but the impact of humanism was undoubtedly far-reaching. Renaissance humanism inspired philological study, editing, and translation into Latin of a wide range of hitherto little-known or lessstudied Greek medical texts; in turn, the reception and scienti‹c in›uence of this material had a powerful and ultimately transformative effect on medical knowledge, by stimulating critiques of the ancients, new investigations in anatomy and botany, a new Hippocratism, and new forms of case history. But Renaissance medicine was, as already noted in the present study’s introduction, also a humanistic discipline in a much more general and inclusive sense. As such, it both fostered and provided scope for the interest of learned physi-

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cians in such topics and branches of knowledge as rhetoric, history, biography, the ethnography of remote peoples and places, and antiquarianism—as ample examples in the previous chapters have demonstrated. At the same time, the surrounding intellectual culture’s intense interest in historical writing and historical method combined with inherently historical aspects within medicine to encourage medically trained authors to pay attention to many different aspects of the record and material relics of the past. If the interest of physicians in such ‹elds needs to be incorporated into the history of Renaissance medicine, their place in the general intellectual history of the period also calls for assessment. No doubt, only a minority of physicians wrote on historical or antiquarian topics, but even the works discussed in this book are suf‹cient to suggest that that minority was not negligible. That some of their individual endeavors had considerable signi‹cance for their contemporaries is not in doubt: Mercuriale’s comprehensive survey of ancient athletics, Giovio’s panorama of contemporary history, Minadoi’s newsworthy account of war in the Middle East—these were widely read in multiple editions in their own day. Even the denunciations of Giovio by Bodin and others are testimonies to the fame, or notoriety, of his work. There is no question that many patrons—ranging from the States of Holland, who commissioned Hadrianus Junius to write Batavia, to the emperors Ferdinand I and Maximilian II, who appointed Lazius and Sambucus, respectively, to the position of of‹cial historicus—were convinced that physicians were as well or better quali‹ed to write history as other learned men. But apart from those few instances when medical authors—Champier, Benedetti, Lazius— wrote of campaigns in which they personally participated in a professional medical or surgical capacity, general histories written by medically trained authors are seldom marked by any speci‹cally medical content or orientation. Rather, just as the contemporary development of history and the study of antiquities doubtless encouraged them to incorporate into their medical writings discussion of such subjects as the ancient human body or the history of diseases, so their training in medicine, a discipline increasingly oriented toward particulars and narrative, ‹tted them for history. Nor does it seem possible to credit medically trained authors as a group with any special or unusual degree of historical insight. Most of the authors described in this book wrote in the conventional medical and historical genres of their day. As historians and antiquaries, they were, by and large, as likely as—though certainly no more likely than—any of their contemporaries to be susceptible to the lure of implausibly antique genealogies or the Noachian fantasies of Annius of Viterbo and to credit the authenticity of material remains of dubi-

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ous provenance. Moreover, in a number of instances, of which Lazius is only the most prominent, they evidently wrote with the dynastic and political interests of patrons in mind. Nevertheless, some individuals among the medical authors described in the preceding chapters clearly did participate in and contribute to the move toward a more critical, analytical, and evidence-based version of history. As noted earlier, Cardano’s critique of exemplary history and conventional historical judgments in Proxeneta and the Encomium of Nero in some respects recalls Guicciardini. It also shows a high level of self-consciousness about historical method. So, too, does Minadoi’s attention to what would now be termed techniques of oral history in weighing, comparing, and evaluating the relative reliability of what different local informants told him. Among early histories of the sciences, Naudé’s work on the history of magic stands out for its bold criticism of received opinion on a potentially dangerous subject. Where the past of medicine itself is concerned, Conring as well as Le Clerc has sometimes been identi‹ed as the progenitor of a “modern” history of medicine that moved away from uncritical reliance on ancient doxography.1 Moreover, other authors whose views of history and antiquities remained more conventional nonetheless participated in contemporary expansion of the scope and themes of study of the past by writing on aspects of human society other than past politics or on hitherto neglected or despised historical periods. Bacci’s endeavors to turn his antiquarian learning about the ancient Roman water supply to contemporary practical use, however unrealistic, drew attention to the history—decidedly medical in its orientation—of the impact of natural and built environment on human health. Cuspinianus, as editor of Otto of Freising, and Lazius, as collector of medieval manuscripts, contributed to the development of medieval history that was an important feature of German humanism. The sixteenth-century medical antiquaries, like contemporary antiquaries of other backgrounds, often tended to give ancient texts priority over artifacts or to value artifacts chie›y as adjuncts to the texts. But in the second half of the seventeenth century, antiquarianism was changing as archaeology emerged. Nowhere are both the changes and the continued participation of medical men in this process better exempli‹ed than by the career of the Lyon physician Jacob Spon, the son of Charles Spon, the physician who had edited the collection of Cardano’s works published in 1663 (itself a historical project by that date). The younger Spon’s interests were primarily historical and antiquarian; his works in those areas, which far outnumbered his few medical publications, included a book on the antiquities of Lyon and a history of

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Geneva. From 1674 to 1676, he traveled through Dalmatia, Greece, and the Levant; after his return, he published a work that is simultaneously a travel narrative and a record of his archaeological observations at ancient sites, most notably Athens and Delos.2 Spon’s travels recall those of some of the physicians considered in chapter 8, but in other respects, his experiences and contacts re›ect a changing world of science, a changing historical culture, and changing relations between history and antiquarianism. Sharply aware of current developments in the world of new science and perhaps mindful of his father’s achievement as a scholarly editor, Spon hoped to arrange for the Lyon publication of some of Malpighi’s works. Spon’s letter to Malpighi requesting information about his recent anatomical researches elicited a detailed response, but the planned publication never took place (most likely because of Spon’s increasing dif‹culties as a Calvinist in the years leading up to the revocation of the Edict of Nantes). Instead, Malpighi published his letter to Spon in the Royal Society’s Philosophical Transactions.3 The experimental scientist Malpighi, with his connections with the Royal Society, and the antiquarian Spon may seem to represent opposite types in seventeenth-century medicine. Yet the contrast is to some extent misleading. Malpighi, too, had an interest in antiquities, and collected coins and medals. In his student days at Bologna, he had studied medicine under—and throughout his life spoke with admiration of—Andrea Mariani, whose principal publication was on ancient inscriptions in Rome. Just as Spon knew of Malpighi’s anatomical research, so Malpighi knew and spoke favorably of Spon’s archaeological investigations. Indeed, in the conclusion of his letter to Spon, he seemed almost to suggest a parallel between the two ‹elds of inquiry.4 In short, the two men did not inhabit different intellectual universes. Rather, even as signi‹cant scienti‹c transformation took place, late seventeenth-century learned physicians retained many of the intellectual and cultural assumptions and practices of the humanist medicine of the previous two centuries. But different notions of professional specialization were also emerging. Signi‹cantly, for Malpighi, unlike Spon, antiquities were a private interest, kept distinct from his program of scienti‹c research and publication. Spon’s historical and antiquarian investigations also suggest growing specialization, albeit in a different area. Unlike previous Western medical travelers in the Ottoman Empire, he was not engaged as a practitioner in the service of any government or patron. He went to Greece on his own initiative, motivated solely by the desire to investigate ancient sites and material remains. Moreover, his insistence on the superiority of archaeological evidence and its actual priority over textual evidence belong both to the history of historical

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Pyrrhonism and to that of the origins of archaeology as a specialized discipline. Collecting practices, too, were changing by the later seventeenth century, in the age of the Grand Tour and the growth of a market for antiquities, in which both Spon and his friend or acquaintance Charles Patin—who devoted much of his time as a member of the Padua medical faculty to numismatics and the collection of antiquities—participated to some extent.5 The communication between Malpighi and Spon, revealing their diverging yet mutually touching careers and interests, seems to mark a point at which the balance was, at least in some cases, just beginning to shift toward more specialized forms of intellectual activity and professional life. Not all physicians who continued to pursue history and antiquities after the mid-seventeenth century were as attuned to new developments as Spon. Examples of individuals who engaged with history and antiquarianism in ways similar to those described in this book can be found throughout the seventeenth century and well into the eighteenth (and doubtless beyond). Some physicians continued to write political history, at least on a local scale, as did Dr. Johann Lorenz Bausch of Schweinfurt, better remembered as the leader of the group of physicians who, in 1652, founded the Academia Naturae Curiosorum, the scienti‹c academy subsequently known as the Deutsche Akademie der Naturforscher Leopoldina.6 Physicians who continued to collect and record both natural history and antiquities ranged from Dr. Charles Leigh, who conjoined natural history, medicine (i.e., disease environment, accounts of epidemics, and case histories), and antiquities in his account of the county of Lancashire and adjacent regions, published by subscription in 1700; to Hans Sloane, the naturalist and successful and wealthy London physician whose collections subsequently formed the nucleus of the British Museum; to Esprit Calvet, whose collection of both ancient artifacts and natural history, along with his learned antiquarianism and bibliophile tastes, placed him at the center of a circle of provincial érudits who pursued their avocations through the upheavals of the French Revolution. Laudatory collections of physician biographies in a traditional mold continued to appear.7 But history, medicine, and the relation between them all changed under the in›uence of new science, early Enlightenment, and, in some areas, innovations in university organization. Despite some continuities, the relation of medicine to historical culture in late seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Europe is a subject for another book and has indeed been well described by several recent scholars. At that time, the interest of medical men in history took a more specialized direction. More and more often, when physicians wrote history, they wrote increasingly detailed histories of medicine, often

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informed and engaged by the scienti‹c innovations and medical controversies of their own day. As Hans-Uwe Lammel has shown, though the Prussian royal physician and member of the Berlin Academy of Sciences Johann Carl Wilhelm Moehsen incorporated the history of medicine into a general history of learning in Brandenberg-Prussia, the future (for some time, at any rate) lay with the “pragmatic” medical history of Kurt Sprengel. The notable expansion of the history of medicine in the eighteenth century was a prelude to its further development as a discipline with an institutional basis in the nineteenth.8 (This is not, of course, to claim that physicians ceased to be interested in other aspects of the past.) In this book, I have considered aspects of the social as well as the intellectual contexts in which the medicine of the ‹fteenth to mid-seventeenth centuries intersected with powerful traditions of Renaissance learning. I have pursued this theme both within and outside the literature of medicine and across a variety of regional and geographical settings, in the hope that both common features and differences would emerge. From the standpoint of the history of medicine, learning and interests of the kind considered here were only one aspect of the multifaceted Renaissance and early modern discipline, profession, and occupation of medicine—an aspect signi‹cant, for the most part, only for the more privileged sections of the medical community. But the material considered in this book suggests that physicians and their writings (whether on medicine or other subjects) merit fuller integration into the mainstream of European intellectual history. Historiographical trends of the last twenty or thirty years have worked to open larger historical contexts for the history of early modern medicine. In the history of early modern science, life sciences receive more attention than formerly, while the history of health, disease, and medical practice has been recognized and incorporated as a signi‹cant area of social and, more recently, cultural history. Renaissance and early modern medicine and physicians are only now beginning to receive the same level of attention from intellectual historians.9 I hope this work may contribute to further opening the subject.

NOTES

introduction 1. Schedel 1493; Wilson 1976. On Schedel’s career, library, and work, see Zahn’s introduction to Wilson 1976; Vogel 1994. Carion’s brief German Chronica was ‹rst published in Augsburg in 1532. On Carion (Johannes Nägelin) and his career, see Benning [1999]. For the translation into Latin and the revisions, rewriting, and updating by Melanchthon and Peucer, see Bauer [1999]; Miegge 1995, 49–66. Giovio 1957–85; the Histories were ‹rst published in 1550 and 1552. On Giovio and his work, see Zimmerman 1995a; regarding early editions of the Histories, ibid., 263, 289. 2. Burke 2003, 294–95. 3. See Grafton and Siraisi 2001. 4. Frijhoff 1996a. 5. For graduate physicians in Tuscany, see Cipolla 1976, 80, 118–24. The presence of relatively large numbers of graduate physicians in the area re›ected the number of universities in northern and central Italy. For numbers and sites of universities and university foundations in the sixteenth century, see Frijhoff 1996b, especially 80–87, 90–97; for chairs at Bologna, Dallari 1888–91, vol. 2; for careers and writings of professors, Mazzetti 1847. On medicine as a profession and the medical hierarchy in early seventeenth-century Italy, see Gentilcore 1997. 6. Siraisi 1997, 212; Mazzetti 1847, s.v. “Pellegrino.” I have not seen Giovanni Battista Pellegrini’s De causa continente, deque morbo ‹ente disceptatio (Bologna, 1561) or De ratione cognoscendi signa, et causas morborum ferè omnium ‹entium in corpore humano (Bologna, 1571) (which may be two versions of the same work) and cite them from the online catalogs of, respectively, the Wellcome Library and the National Library of Medicine. The purpose of Pellegrini 1582, Adversus philosophiae, et medicinae calumniatores apologia, is explained in its dedicatory preface (A3r–v). 7. Grafton 2007 (my thanks to Anthony Grafton for allowing me to see this work in advance of its publication). The relevant bibliography on Renaissance history writing

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Notes to Pages 9–14

and historiography is too extensive to list here, but mention must at least be made of the following works: Kelley 1970; Huppert 1970; Landfester 1972; Seifert 1976; Cochrane 1981a; Black 1987; Woolf 2000; Doni Garfagnini 2002; Grafton 2005; Pomata and Siraisi 2005. On the development of histories of individual disciplines in this period, see also Kelley 1997 and the contents of “Histories of Science in Early Modern Europe,” a special issue of the Journal of the History of Ideas (67 [2006]: 33–122): Byrne 2006; Goulding 2006a, 2006b; Kassell 2006; Popper 2006. 8. The remarks in Cochrane 1981b regarding motivations for history writing in Italy also apply to other regions of Europe. 9. See, for example, Blair 2005. 10. Kelley 1970; Kelley 1984, no. 5; Bezold 1918. For fuller bibliography of earlier studies of the contribution of French jurists to historical method, see Huppert 1970, 8–9. Huppert notes that their predominance among writers of histories in sixteenth-century France re›ects a more general predominance in other forms of cultural life (185–93). See also, with reference to the in›uence of law in England, Shapiro 2000. Of signi‹cance for the development of history as well law and medicine are the remarks in Maclean 2000. 11. See Lyon 2003; Zen 1994; Pullapilly 1975. 12. Bauer [1999], 20; Momigliano 1987; Wirth 1977, 5–33. 13. Woolf 2000, 2003. 14. Patrizi da Cherso 1560 (in facsimile in Kessler 1971), 10–11 (also cited in Grafton 2005, 52). 15. Momigliano 1950, especially 289–93. On antiquarianism and material evidence, see Burke 2003. For examples of writers on antiquities who also produced treatises on the ars historica or wrote historical works, see Grafton 2005, 53. 16. McCuaig 1989, 5–6. For the impact of the discovery and study of the Fasti, see McCuaig 1991. 17. Serjeantson 1999; Soll 2003. 18. Machiavelli, Discorsi sopra la prima deca di Tito Livio, book 1, proem, in Machiavelli 1954, 90.The translation is from Machiavelli 1989, 1:191. Bodin 1951, 114. Couzinet 1996, 123–30 (noting parallels with Fernel and the Renaissance use of Galen’s Methodus medendi). For late sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century development of the metaphor of healing the body politic, see Soll 2002. 19. Momigliano 1985; Jouanna 2005; Jouanna 1999, 232–42; Van der Eijk 1999; Von Staden 1999; Pliny Naturalis historia 29.1–8. 20. Nutton 2004, 216–29, analyzes autobiograpical and historical elements in Galen’s writings, noting the possibility of some self-fashioning. See also Nutton 1988b. For many of Galen’s comments on earlier physicians, see Von Staden 1989; Smith 1979, 61–176. 21. See Ottosson 1982, 65–98; Siraisi 1990. 22. Crisciani 1990, 118–39. Guy de Chauliac 1997, 1:5–8; Guy’s use of De vita et moribus philosophorum (now attributed to an anonymous early fourteenth-century Italian author; see Grignaschi 1990) is noted in the accompaning volume of editorial commentary (Guy de Chauliac 1997, 2:20). For the interest of Pietro d’Abano in the history of philosophy, see Pietro d’Abano 1565 (facsimile 1985), differentia 124, 180v–181r; Piaia 1983, 17–19. For the remark about Themison, see Pietro d’Abano 1565, differentia 1, 3r: “Ex cuius sucessoribus Themison nuper in senectute quaedam de›exit.” The passage is


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noted in Heischkel 1938, 36. In the early fourteenth century, use of Celsus was highly unusual. For Pietro’s remarks about histories, or chronicles, see Pietro d’Abano 1475, 30.2 and 18.9. 23. Simon de Phares 1997. 24. In 1262, the chronicle of Rolandino of Padua was read in the presence of and approved by the doctors and masters of the Studium of Padua, including three doctors of phisica; see Rolandino of Padua 1905–8, 12.19, pp. 173–74. In 1314 or 1315, the College of Arts (and medicine) of the Studium of Padua crowned with laurel the poet and historian Albertino Mussato, who commemorated the occasion in a poem titled “Ad collegium artistarum” (printed in J. G. Graevius, ed., Thesaurus antiquitatum et historiarum Italiae [Leiden, 1704–23], vol. 6, part 2, 33–36): see also Siraisi 1973, 22, 47; Lazzarini 1969b. The collection of remedies is Jacopo Dondi, Liber aggregationis sive Aggregator Paduanus de medicinis simplicibus (Venice, 1481). Jacopo died in 1359. For some of the history books owned by Giovanni di Marco (d. 1474), see Manfron 1998, 155–61, inv. A, nos. 4, 19, 52, 71, 72, 78, 80, 100; inv. B, nos. 6, 9, 11, 12, 16, 17, 34, 53, 54, 104, 115, 117; Pesenti 1998. Another physician who owned literary and historical works was Giovanni Dondi (d. 1389), son of Jacopo; see Lazzarini 1969a, 265–68. 25. Savonarola 1902. The work was written ca. 1445. For Savonarola’s correspondence with Sicco Polentone, see Lazzarini 1969b, 108. For his career and writings, see Pesenti 1984, 187–96; Crisciani 2005. On Leoniceno’s translations of historians, see Nutton 1997, 6; Mugnai Carrara 1978, 177–79. 26. Smith 1979, 172–75. 27. Pomata and Siraisi 2005; Grafton and Siraisi 1999; Pomata 1996; Pomata 2005; Maclean, 2002; Maclean 2000; Zimmerman 1995a; Ferrari 1996. For Renaissance historical writing, see note 7 to the present introduction. Additional recent bibliography on antiquarianism is cited in the following chapters. 28. Soll 2002. 29. Bodin 1951, 130–31: “Polybium secutus est aetate nostra Paulus Jovius, quod attinet ad universam sui temporis historiam. Sed hoc inter utrumque interest, quod ille vel rebus gestis interfuit, vel praefuit, vel publica ubique monumenta vidit; hic audita et inaudita plerumque scripsit: ille in militari ac domestica disciplina diu se exercuit; hic neutram attigit: ille in sua Republica princeps; hic privatus: ille imperator; hic medicus: ille magnam Europae partem, oram Africae et Asiam minorem, ut populorum mores intelligeret, peragravit; hic annos septem et triginta ut ipse gloriatur, in Vaticano consedit.” Bodin was, however, an especially hostile critic of Giovio. 30. Wilson 1976, 207–24.

preface to part 1 1. Paré 1575, 941–43, with passages quoted in the seventeenth-century English translation in Paré 1968, 212. Battista Fregoso (1453–1504; in Latin, Campofulgosus or Fulgosus) was the author of De dictis factisque memorabilibus (Milan, 1509, and several later sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century editions). Giovanni Battista Egnazio (ca. 1478–1553), De Caesaribus libri III . . . , ‹rst published in Venice in 1516, also appeared in French translation (Paris, 1529). Maffei 1506 is the ‹rst edition of an encyclopedic reference work that went into a number of subsequent sixteenth-century editions.

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chapter 1 1. Sylvius 1555, 1r: “mihi in praesens suffecerit causam afferre, cur in nostris corporibus hodie pauca quaedam aliter appareant quam Hippocratis, aut Galeni, aut aliorum veterum saeculo. Corporis primum nostri magnitudinem diminutam multum esse, ex veterum scriptis [in margin: Homerus, Iliados 5 de Diomede. Virgilius 12 de Turno. Plinius li. 7. cap. 16] et superstitibus adhuc sarcophagis ac sceletis comprobarem, nisi otiosa haec testimonia vobis putarem, qui etiam hodie hanc plurimum imminui cernitis: praesertim quibus regionibus matrimonia nimium libera, et ante iustam aetatem permittuntur. Vitam quoque veteribus quam nostris hominibus longiorem fuisse literae tum sacrae, tum prophanae testimoniis quamplurimis aperte convincunt. Partium vero internarum quarundam magnitudinem, numerum, ‹guram, situm, mutata multis esse regionibus, nec eadem omnibus nostris corporibus superesse quae veteribus sunt observata, illorum scripta, nostraque corpora abunde testantur: ut sit credibile regionum singularum hominibus, uti et aliis animalibus, atque adeo plantis ipsis, vel peculiare aliquid ab illis inesse, vel quandam ex priore natura mutationem accidisse.” 2. Sylvius 1551, 13v: “Nec in hoc est Galeni peccatum, sed naturae in nobis mutatio ex caelo, sole, victu profecta: de qua fusius epistolam in nostram eisagogen anatomicam egimus: ut neminem hodie mirari oporteat, si in corporibus tempestatis huius abundent quaedam, desiderentur etiam aliqua eorum quae a maioribus anatomicis observata sunt.” 3. Thompson 1963, 12. 4. Glacken 1967, 379–82; Céard 1978; Schnapper 1986. 5. Greek and Roman accounts of human origins and early conditions are collected and categorized in Lovejoy and Boas 1965; see also Glacken 1967, 130–49. The range of views expressed is exempli‹ed by the contrast between the descriptions of the Golden Age in Hesiod (Works and Days 110–20) and Ovid (Metamorphoses 1.89–112) and the accounts of the harsh conditions of early humankind by Lucretius (De rerum natura 5.925–1010) and Diodorus Siculus (1.8.5–9). 6. For the principal biblical passages referring to giants and for patristic discussions of them, see Stephens 1989, 72–92. For the continued defense of biblical giants, see ibid., 92–97; Schnapper 1986; Schnapper 1988, 94–103. A notable example is Calmet 1720. Classical sources referring to giants include Homer Odyssey 9.187–543 (Cyclops), Hesiod Theogony 139–885 (Titans), and Ovid Metamorphoses 1.151–62 (giants attack heaven); in addition, Pliny Naturalis historia 7.16.73–75 reports ‹ndings of vast ancient skeletons. 7. Stephens 1989, 98–138. 8. On medieval debates over the human or nonhuman status of the so-called monstrous races, see Friedman 1981, 178–96. 9. See Grafton 1992, 97–157. On the impact of depictions and descriptions of natives of the Americas on depictions and descriptions of ancient Britons, see Kendrick 1950, 120–25 and plates 11–16. 10. Hippocrates Airs Waters Places 12–24; Ptolemy Tetrabiblos 2.3–4. On the in›uence of these works and the theory of climate in general, see Glacken 1967, 82–115, 429–60; Couzinet 1996, 163–87, 301–3; Tooley 1953; Lestringant 1982; Grafton 1999, 134–50; and Jouanna’s introduction to Hippocrates 1996.


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11. Kleinbaum 1983, 101–37, summarizes the numerous sixteenth- and seventeenthcentury accounts of sightings of and searches for Amazons in South America and Africa. Antonio Pigafetta, a companion of Magellan, described the “giants” of Patagonia in his relation of Magellan’s voyage, which was printed several times in the sixteenth century and included in Giovanni Battista Ramusio’s widely disseminated collection of voyages. On the sixteenth- and seventeenth-century fortuna of Pigafetta’s work, see Pigafetta 1999, 49–58. The early printed versions, including that used by Ramusio, were incomplete but contained the section on giants; see Ramusio 1967–70, 3:14. 12. See, for example, Kendrick 1950. 13. See, for example, Ferrary 1996; Mandowsky and Mitchell 1963; Rowland 1998, chapters 1–2; Grafton 1993; Haskell 1993; R. Weiss 1973; Barkan 1999; Stenhouse 2003, 2005a. 14. For wide distribution of the Metamorphoses in the eleventh to fourteenth centuries, see Anderson 1995, xxiii–xxvi. Accounts available in the West before the ‹fteenth century also included Pliny’s Naturalis historia (with discussion, at 7.16, of the greater size and longevity of the ancients). 15. Crisciani 1990, especially 120–25; De Rijk 1967. 16. Ziegler 2001. 17. Pietro d’Abano 1565, differentia 9, “Utrum natura humana sit debilitata ab eo quod antiquitus necne,” 14r–15v. 18. Pietro d’Abano 1565, 14v: “nil ad praesens de miraculis ipsius [sc. Dei], et voluntate scrutandum consequenti, cum leges vim solam obtineant persuadendi, Poli. 2 inquiratur igitur veritas quaesiti ex dictis astrologorum, philosophorum, et medicorum deinceps.” 19. These are the names by which the ninth- and tenth-century authors of widely used compendia of materia medica and therapy translated from the Arabic were known in the Latin West; see Schipperges 1964, 97–98. 20. Schedel 1493, 1: “Epitoma operum sex dierum de mundi fabrica Prologus.” The Chronicle was published in both Latin and German versions. On Schedel, see further the bibliography cited in note 1 to the introduction of the present volume. 21. I make no attempt to supply complete bibliography of these subjects, but for Vesalius and his critics, mention should at least be made of C. D. O’Malley 1964; for Leoniceno, Mugnai Carrara 1991; for theories of contagion, Nutton 1983 and 1990b. Carmichael 1993 provides a general account of the disease patterns in Renaissance and early modern Europe that provoked controversies about “new diseases.” 22. For early descriptions, theories, and controversies, see Arrizabalaga, Henderson, and French 1997; Mugnai Carrara 1979; Quétel 1986, 41–106. Early treatises are collected in Sudhoff 1925 (texts in facsimile; Sudhoff’s introductory material adapted by Charles Singer) and Luisinus 1566. I make no attempt here to discuss the modern controversy over the origin and spread of this and related diseases. 23. Benedetti 1998, 2.21, p. 164; see also Ferrari 1996, 147, 279–85. 24. Leoniceno 1497, 124 (in Sudhoff 1925): “ita ubi considero eadem natura praeditos homines, sub eodem coelo natos, sub eisdem syderibus educatos, eisdem etiam semper fuisse morbis obnoxios cogor existimare, neque mihi potest in captum mentis pervenire natam hanc repente labem nostram ita infecisse aetatem, ut nullam superiorem. Quod si quis aliter quam ego sentiat quid tandem hoc esse dixerit aut quam deo-

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rum vindictam: nam si causae naturales inspiciantur, millies post mundi initia eaedem extitere.” 25. Fracastoro 1930, 2.12, pp. 142–50. On Fracastoro’s own ideas regarding seeds of disease and contagion and their philosophical background, see Nutton 1983; Pastore and Peruzzi 2006; Hirai 2005b, chapter 3; Pennuto 2005. 26. Pliny Naturalis historia 26.1–6; Celsus De medicina proem, in Celsus 1971, 1:10. Ferrari (1996, 280) calls attention to both passages. 27. Pietro d’Abano 1565, 15v: “inclamat Galenus Apho. 6 Hip. dicente pueros, et eunuchos non podagrizare. Inveniens demum Galenus eosdem aegritudine detentos inquit homines nostri temporis esse amicos gulae et luxuriae.” Pietro accurately gives the sense of the medieval Latin translation of Galen’s commentary on Hippocrates Aphorisms 6.29 and 31 (6.28 and 30 by the numbering of modern editors); see Articella 1487, 38v. 28. Mercuriale 2006, 1.1, pp. 3–15. At p. 3: “Qua de re tunc temporis medicinae aut paucos omnino, aut nullos usus nullaque principia exstitisse certum est, etsi Homerus, antiquissimus auctor, scripserit Aegyptum multas herbas multaque medicamenta habuisse. Postquam vero intemperantiae nefanda lues, coquorum exquisitae artes, delicatissima epularum condimenta vinorumque peregrinae temperaturae inter homines irrepsere, morborum simul varia continuo genera succrescentia ad inveniendam medicinam eos coegerunt.” On this work and its author, see further “Girolamo Mercuriale and Greco-Roman Physical Culture” and note 68 in the present chapter. 29. See chapters 2 and 4 in this book. 30. A notable example of this description is found in the preface to De humani corporis fabrica; for medieval treatments of the theme, see Crisciani 1990. 31. Vesalius 1543, 1.3, p. 7: “. . . veteres qui pueros domi sedulo dissecandi rationem docebant.” Many other similar remarks could be quoted; see Nutton 1988b, 123–24. 32. Falloppia 1584, 221v: “quaerere cepi [sic] an in hac arte, in qua Hippocrates primum, deinde Aristoteles, praeterea Erasistratus, Marinus, ac Herophilus et tandem Galenus erravit, solus Vesalius reperiatur, qui nihil unquam dormitando, non solum hos divinos scriptores, sed etiam Homerum ipsum aliquando (ut fertur in adagio) dormitantem superarit, seu potius aliquid sit ab ipso praetermissum, vel non satis integre enarratum, seu aliquid distortum vel ab historia partium corporis humani discrepans, in illius volumine anatomico reperiatur.” 33. Airs Waters Places 14; Vesalius 1543, 1.5, pp. 17–19, revised and enlarged in the 1555 edition, pp. 21–25. See also Siraisi 1994b, 80–87. 34. Costeo 1589, 402: “quod ad divisionem structurae ossium pertinet sunt (ut arbitror) laudandi et sequendi recentiores.” On Costeo (d. 1603), his edition of and commentary on the Canon of Avicenna, and the use of this medieval textbook in Renaissance and early modern medical education, see Siraisi 1987a. 35. By contrast with the large volumes referred to here, short handbooks of anatomy published in the later sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries seem usually to have ignored the history of the discipline. 36. Bauhin 1609, a4v–a5r: “Deinde, ut in Galeni lectione ita versetur (de Anatomicis loquor) ut diligenter perpendat, quando de re aliqua ex professo agat, aut non agat: sic etiam notet, multa licet non explicite, tamen implicite ab ipso proponi . . .” (speci‹c


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anatomical examples follow). Bauhin (1560–1624) studied anatomy at both Padua and Paris and taught the subject (together with Greek and botany) at the University of Basel; see Gweneth Whitteridge, “Bauhin, Gaspard,” DSB 1:522–25. Bauhin’s main anatomical textbook, the Theatrum Anatomicum (Frankfurt, 1605), does not appear to contain a general defense of Galen, but supports his views on a number of particular points. 37. Bartholin 1668, introduction, Dr. The Institutiones anatomicae of Caspar Bartholin (1585–1629) originally appeared in 1611. The revised edition, prepared by Bartholin’s son Thomas and ‹rst published in 1641, incorporated references to the work of Harvey. The elder Bartholin studied theology at Wittenberg and anatomy at Padua and became a professor of medicine at the University of Copenhagen. See E. Snorrason, “Bartholin, Caspar,” DSB 1:479–81; C. D. O’Malley, “Bartholin, Thomas,” DSB 1:482–83; Grell 1995. 38. Du Laurens [1600], 1.11, “Quid de Anatome scripserit Galenus, et quam male a Neotericis accusetur,” pp. 12–14. At p. 13: “dico non simiarum modo, sed etiam hominum cadavera saepe Galenum secuisse: proferam auctoris ipsius testimonia. . . . Dicunt multa ignorasse Galenum, quae ad humani corporis structuram spectabant, quasi vero proprium hominis non sit ignorare. Nunquid Vesalius multa ignoravit, qua posthac a Falopio [sic] sunt animadversa, et nos multa quotidie prioribus seculis incognita observamus? Sumus, ut bonus dicebat Cauliacensis, in collo gigantis.” Compare Crooke 1631, 22–23. Du Laurens (ca. 1558–1609) was a professor of medicine at Montpellier and physician to Henri IV; his work on anatomy, ‹rst published in 1593, went into a number of early seventeenth-century editions. 39. Banister 1578, proem, Biir–[Bvr], with passage quoted at Biiiv. Banister (1540–1610), a surgeon, was also the author or compiler of several works on surgery. 40. Riolan, Anthropographia, 1.4, in Riolan 1626a, 44–45: “Non sunt autem ignorantiae, aut negligentiae taxandi maiores nostri in re anatomica, si hodie in nostris corporibus pauca quaedam aliter appareant, quam Hippocratis aut Galeni tempore. Sed mutationis in nostris corporibus causa est agnoscenda, quae corporum naturam vitiavit, quod in primis adscribendum est corporis nostri magnitudini multum diminutae, ut ex veterum libris et sarcophagis comprobatur a Sylvio. Deinde vitae nostrae brevitati, quae veteribus longior erat.” The evaluation of Galen occurs in one of a series of chapters (Anthropographia, 1.2–6, pp. 30–58), devoted to assessing previous anatomists and constituting a minihistory of anatomy. The volume also contains Riolan’s Commentarius didacticus, et apologeticus, in Galeni librum de Ossibus ad Tyrones (1626b), in which chapter 3 is devoted to a general defense of Galen. At p. 725: “Quapropter si quaedam paulo aliter constructa in corporibus nostris appareant, quam fuerint a Galeno descripta, verisimile est longam temporum atque aevorum seriem in humanis corporibus multa immutasse.” On the generally Galenic position of Jean Riolan the younger (1580–1657), his dispute with Harvey, and his subsequent concept of a “modi‹ed” theory of circulation, see French 1994, 265–85. 41. Céard 1978, 67–76. Riolan 1618, 64: “les plus grands hommes du premier et second Age, n’ont esté plus hauts que neuf à dix pieds.” On respect for the heritage of Sylvius at Paris, see French 1994, 266. Riolan (1614, 6) wrote: “Verum ad explanandas Galeni salubras Sylvii commentarium retinui, meoque copulavi; cum nullus ex interpretibus mentem Galeni rectius assequutus fuerit.” 42. For the history of the recognition in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth

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centuries of such ‹nds as the remains of extinct animals, see Cohen 1994, 1–155; Egmond and Mason 1997, 8–18. 43. Céard 1978, 67–76; Schnapper 1986. On the gigantology of Rabelais, see Stephens 1989, 185–213; on Rabelais’s medical training, career, and ideas, Antonioli 1976. 44. Leodius 1612–13, 5–7, describes how Lange and Leodius (1495–1555?) moved the tomb slab and their ‹ndings. 45. Chif›et’s discussion of giants is found in Chif›et 1988, part 1, chapter 47, pp. 259–61. The work was ‹rst published in 1618; Chif›et (1588–1660) studied at Paris and Padua, was city physician of Besançon, and published medical works (ibid., pp. 11–14). On his Anastasis Childerici I Francorum Regis (Antwerp, 1655), see Burke 2003; regarding some of his other antiquarian works, Papy 2003. 46. Goropius 1569. On Goropius (1519–72), see Melchior Adam, Vitae germanorum medicorum qui seculo superiori, et quod excurrit, claruerunt, congestae et ad annum usque MDCXX deductae, 84–85, separately paginated and with separate title page in Adam 1705; Biographie nationale (Brussels: Académie Royale des Sciences, des Lettres et des Beaux-arts de Belgique), 8:120–24; Purnell 1976, 162–68; Secret 1992, 136–46. 47. Goropius 1569, 137ff., 175. 48. Céard 1978, 63–66. 49. Goropius 1569, 170–75; for the dimensions of Og’s bed, see Deuteronomy 3.11. 50. Goropius 1569, 175–81. 51. Goropius 1569, 207: “Con‹denter igitur de philosophiae praeceptis statuamus, nihil in humana statura ab ineunte mundi aetate immutatum esse.” 52. Goropius, 1569, 207–11. 53. H. Junius 1588, ***[2], includes Goropius on a list of recent authors consulted. 54. P. Junius 1652, *3r–[8v]. At 6v: “Fuit non solum medicus, poeta, historicus, exactissima antiquitatis cognitione insignis, sed etiam summus criticus.” On Junius, see also Adam Vitae germanorum medicorum 101–94 (error for 102) in Adam 1705; Aa 1969, 73–75; Gordon 1939–40. 55. H. Junius 1588, chapter 10, “De armamentario populi Romani maritimo, quam Britannicam Arcem hodie nominamus,” 107–22. This chapter contains the only illustrations in the volume; they include a plan of the camp, drawings of inscriptions and reliefs, and depictions of various artifacts found nearby. 56. H. Junius 1588, chapter 2, “De gigantibus, quos fabulantur Annales Bataviam tenuisse,” 9–13. 57. The remarks about Charlemagne’s size allude to the chronicle of pseudoTurpin. 58. H. Junius 1588, 12–13. 59. P. E. Pilet, “Platter, Félix,” DSB 11:33; Landolt 1972. Le Roy Ladurie 1997, a study of the Platter family, provides a full bibliography of editions of works of Felix Platter and his relatives, including letters and memoirs, and extensive secondary bibliography. See also Tröhler 1991. 60. C. D. O’Malley, “Bartholin, Thomas,” DSB 1:482–83; see also Porter 1963, 99–108, which also notes (107–8) that Riolan attacked Bartholin because of his departures from Galen. 61. Platter 1614, book 3, “Observationes in vitiis.” The ‹rst subsection of book 3 is titled “In deformatione”; cases of excess of size occupy pages 546–49.


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62. Platter 1614, 548–49: “Sceleton gigantis. Cum anno 1584, mense Iulio, Lucernam Helvetiorum vocatus essem. . . . Accidit tunc, ut mihi ossium quorundam fragmenta immensae magnitudinis, quae in curia asservabantur, senatores demonstrarent, quae in ditione ipsarum non procul a Coenobio Reiden in montis vicini specu sub annosa quercu, viventum deiecta, inventa, collectaque atque eo delata fuerunt. Quae cum considerarem atque e minoribus pleraque, et ex illis quae tenuibus laminis constant, ut sunt calvariae ossa, carie vetustateque consumpta, vel quia comminuta neglectaque fuerant, desiderarentur, maiora ex illis versans, tam ea quae adhuc integra erant, quam portiones maiorum ossium, licet exesa atque fungosa leviaque essent, quantum cognoscere potui, humanis ossibus respondere observavi, atque mox qualia essent singulis inscripsi; Eoque magis Gigantis alicuius ossa fuisse, ex eo collegi, quod pollicis os in‹mum, inter ea invenerim, nec non molam, dein et calcis os scapulasque cum clavicula, quae tantum in homine ea forma deprehenduntur. Adhaec et longa et crassa ossa femorum, tibiarum, humeri et brachij, quorum extrema, cum capitibus restabant, ab humanis ossibus forma nihil differebant. Quae omnia occasionem mihi praebuerunt, ut cum singula ad me Basileam haec ossa, Magistratus illius loci iussu, transmissa essent, ea diligentius inspiciens, et cum sceleti mei ossibus conferens, magis in ea sententia con‹rmarer, atque ad sceleti mei ossa, maiora haec et confracta conferendo, integrum sceleton tanta magnitudinis, quantum ossa, si integra fuissent, effecissent, delineari et depingi cunaverim. Quod sceleton decem et novem pedes longitudine adaequat. Inde cum nullum animal quadrupes tanta altitudinis inveniatur, magis ossa illa Gigantis alicuius fuisse probari potest. Cuius etiam olim longitudinis gigantes extitisse, historiae prodiderunt.” 63. Bartholin 1654, Centuria 1, historia 97, “Gigantum ossa,” pp. 143–47. 64. Bartholin 1654, 1.97, p. 143: “Quanquam Gigantum nationem vix invenias, qua patet orbis; sunt tamen et fuere hinc inde inusitatae magnitudinis homines, monstris justius annumerandi. . . . Sicut ab inopia materiae seminalis subinde infra Pygmaeorum mensuram arctantur nonnulli, ita ex materiae ubertate in immensam molem alii crescunt.” 65. Ole Worm (1588–1654) was the husband of Bartholin’s aunt. A professor of medicine at the University of Copenhagen, he owed his fame to his pioneering study of runes and Danish antiquities and to his collection cataloged as Museum Wormianum. See Glyn Daniel, “Worm, Ole,” DSB 14:505; Schepelern 1971, of which I cite the Englishlanguage summary at 367–83. In later life, Thomas Bartholin, too, spent much of his time in antiquarian studies. 66. Bartholin 1654, 1.97, p. 144: “Annulos habet in Musaeo Magnus Wormius, qui nobis pro armillis suf‹cerent.” The mathematical calculations and sketches of the front and back of the giant tooth are found on 145–47. 67. On attitudes toward “strange facts” and wonders of nature in the seventeenth century, see Daston and Park 1998, 215–301. 68. The ‹rst edition, titled Artis gymnasticae apud antiquos celeberrimae, nostris temporibus ignoratae, libri sex, appeared in Venice, 1569; subsequent editions, titled De arte gymnastica libri sex and successively enlarged with revisions and additions by the author, appeared in Venice, 1573, 1587, and 1601. Another edition appeared in Paris, 1577. For full bibliography editions, including later editions, translations, and facsimiles, see the editor’s introduction to Mercuriale 2006, XLIX–LI, and Cerasoli and Garavini 2006,

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102–3, 116–17. In the present chapter citations of book 1 are to Mercuriale 2006, that is book 1 of De arte gymnastica edited and translated by Jean-Michel Agasse, a critical edition based on the ‹ve editions that appeared during Mercuriale’s lifetime. Citations of later books are to the 1573 edition, with page numbers of the 1672 edition, which has been reproduced in facsimile, added for ease of reference. On the work and its context see also Agasse’s introduction to Mercuriale 2006, Nutton 1990a, and Siraisi 2003. I make no attempt here to list the older bibliography on Mercuriale as a supposed pioneer of exercise. Nutton 1990a, 300–302, notes a number of sixteenth-century educational and medical writers on exercise. For Mercuriale’s biography, see Paoletti 1963 and Simili 1941. 69. Onofrio Panvinio, De his qui romanas antiquitates scripto comprehenderunt, edited in Ferrary 1996, 62: “Hieronymus Mercurialis Foroliviensis, amicus meus, Alexandri Farnesii Cardinalis summi medicus, cuncta antiquorum exercitia egregie sex libris admirabili eruditione et diligentia descripsit.” Panvinio (1529–68) knew Mercuriale’s as yet unpublished work on gymnastic in manuscript (Ferrary 1996, 130). 70. On antiquarianism in Rome in the mid-sixteenth century, see, in addition to the sources named in note 13 to this chapter, Stenhouse 2005b. On Pirro Ligorio, see further discussion later in this chapter. On Cardinal Alessandro Farnese, his collection, and his advisers on antiquities, see Robertson 1992, especially 50, 220–24; Herklotz 1999, 214–26; Riebesell 1989. On Orsini, see also Haskell 1993, 39–41. Other important midcentury antiquarians in Rome included Antonio Agustín (1517–86, in Rome in 1544–55) and Ottavio Pantagato (1492–1567); in close touch with Panvinio was the historian Carlo Sigonio, on whom see McCuaig 1989. 71. The inventory of his wide-ranging and extensive library is published in Agasse 2002–3. For an example of Mercuriale as medical humanist in a narrower sense of the term, see Mercuriale 1572, his contribution to a debate with Melchior Guilandinus over the true ingredients of an “Egyptian ointment” mentioned by Galen. 72. Mercuriale 1583; subsequent editions with slightly variant titles appeared in Frankfurt in 1585 and in Venice in 1585 and 1588; the last of these accompanied Hippocrates 1588 Mercuriale’s edition of the Hippocratic corpus. On Mercuriale’s Censura, see Lonie 1978, 48–50; Nutton 1989, 423. 73. Mercuriale 1570. Subsequent expanded editions were published in Basel in 1576 (in ‹ve books), Paris in 1585 (in six books), and Venice in 1588 (in six books). Citations in the present chapter are from the 1570 Venice edition. On history and antiquities in Mercuriale’s works on practical medicine and in some of his Hippocratic commentaries, see further chapter 2 in the present volume. 74. In addition to writing numerous consilia, published in a series of successively expanded editions, Mercuriale was the author of treatises on pediatrics, diseases of women, poisons, plague, skin conditions, and enhancement of the appearance of the body (De decoratione). For a bibliography of his works, see Cerasoli and Garavini 2006. 75. Mercuriale 1570, preface by Andreas Silvius Brugensis, a3r: “ad Alexandrum Farnesium Cardinalem amplissimum . . . non solum propter singularem eruditionem, cum omnibus summa in laude, verum etiam propter morum incredibilem suavitatem, [Mercuriale] maxima in gratia esset.” 76. Patrizi da Cherso 1975, letter 13 (to Girolamo Mercuriale, February 9, 1580). Giannotti 1932 (143, 153–54) contains references to Mercuriale and his correspondence


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with Vettori; the carteggio of letters addressed to Vettori included in this volume lists twenty-‹ve letters from Mercuriale (170, 179, 182); on the Mercuriale-Vettori correspondence see also Agasse 2006. Mercuriale 2006; 1.6, p. 53 refers to advice from Alvise Mocenigo (possibly the member of the Venetian noble family of that name who ruled as doge in 1570–77), as well as from Palladio. Simili 1966, 82–86, edits a series of letters from Mercuriale to Aldrovandi. Mercuriale’s correspondence with Pinelli survives in the Biblioteca Ambrosiana (Adolfo Rivolta, Catalogo de’ codici Pinelliani dell’Ambrosiana [Milan, 1933]). Galilei 1934, 10:54–55, 74–75, 83–84 (nos. 46, 65, 73). 77. Mercuriale 2006, 1.2, pp. 15–21. 78. Nutton 1990a, 300–302. In addition to books 2 and 3 of De ingenio sanitatis (Galen 1821–33, vol. 6), the principal other relevant treatise by Galen is Ad Thrasybulum liber, utrum medicinae sit an gymnastices hygieine (ibid., 5:806–98). See also Arcangeli 1999. 79. See Bonhomme 1990; Vigarello 1990; Manson 1990. Park 2002 also points out the importance attached to various forms of bodily discipline and training; I am grateful to Katharine Park for allowing me to see her article in advance of its publication. Bell 1999, 6–10, points out the proliferation of advice books of all kinds and at all cultural levels in sixteenth-century Italy (Bell’s own work exclusively studies advice books on family life). 80. Mercuriale 2006, 1.1, pp. 3–5. 81. Mercuriale 2006, 1.5, pp. 35–43. 82. Mercuriale 2006, 1.1, pp. 9–13. 83. For discussion of the predominantly textual nature of much sixteenth-century antiquarian scholarship, see also Haskell 1993, 19–22. 84. Mercuriale 2006, 1.2, p. 21. 85. Mercuriale 2006, 1.6, pp. 47–49: “Quomodo vero Plato in Critia dum Atlanticam illam regiam describit, quam novem millium annorum intervallo ab aetate sua ante ›oruisse narrat, ibi gymnasia exstitisse scribat, qui Lacedaemonum inventum illam facit, exacte discernere nequeo, nisi totam illam Critiae narrationem fabulosam credamus.” 86. Mercuriale 2006, 1.3, pp. 21–25. 87. Mercuriale 2006, 1.10, pp. 107–9. See also Vitruvius De architectura 5.10. 88. Mercuriale 2006, 1.1, pp. 5–7; 1.11, p. 139. 89. Robertson 1992, 223–24. 90. On Ligorio, see Cof‹n 2004; Schreurs 2000; Mandowsky and Mitchell 1963; Dionisotti 1963 (review of the foregoing); Gaston 1988b. According to Andreas Frisius, the editor of the 1672 Amsterdam edition of Mercuriale’s De arte gymnastica (**v), Cristofero Coriolano cut the woodblocks for Ligorio’s illustrations for Mercuriale. On Coriolano, who later worked for Aldrovandi, see C. Garzya Romano, “Coriolano, Cristofero,” DBI 29:92–94. On Ligorio’s work on the frescoes at Ferrara depicting ancient athletes, see Cof‹n 1955; 2004, 104–7. 91. Gaston 1988b refers to Ligorio’s “idealizing vision of the Roman past” (17), while acknowledging his numerous inventions and reconstructions; Stenhouse 2005a, 80–98, discusses Ligorio’s practice of inventing inscriptions and the reaction of contemporary scholars and concludes: “it is not anachronistic to call Ligorio a deceptive forger.” 92. Mercuriale 1573, 2.9, p. 111 (1672, 153).

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93. Mercuriale 2006, 1.10, p. 113: “haec [sc. vasa quibus lavabantur] diversas ‹guras habuerunt. . . . Hic autem unam duntaxat formam damus, a Pyrrho Ligorio ex suis praeclarissimis rerum antiquarum monumentis communicatam, quod eam et pulcherrimam, et pro multis rebus intelligendis sagaci lectori accommodatissimam putamus.” 94. On issues in antiquarian illustration in general, see Haskell 1993, especially chapters 1–3; Papy 2004. 95. Mercuriale 2006, 1.11, p. 139: “duae, quas infra ponendas curavimus, picturae; quarum alteram ad tripodem caenantium, ut plerumque solebant, Ligorius maximae auctoritatis antiquarius ex vetustis monumentis communicavit; alteram ex antiquissimo, et omnium rarissimo marmore, quod in Paulli Rhamnusii . . . luculentis aedibus Patavii conspicitur, accurate et ‹deliter repraesentari fecimus.” 96. See Agasse 2001. The relief in question, identi‹ed by modern archaeologists as a funerary momument, now belongs to the collection of the Museo Nazionale Atestino in Este. I am grateful to William Stenhouse for drawing my attention to Agasse’s article. 97. See Vagenheim 1988, 1997. The publisher of the 1672 Amsterdam edition of Mercuriale’s De arte gymnastica evidently felt the need for a scene of gladiatorial combat; the edition contains several additional foldout plates, among them (between pp. 194 and 195) two lively illustrations of gladiators ‹ghting. The sources of the additional plates in works of Justus Lipsius and Onofrio Panvinio are identi‹ed in Andreas Frisius’s preface to the 1672 edition (**v). 98. Mercuriale 2006, 1.11, pp. 131–55, with reference to the Last Supper on 141–43, a reference not found in the corresponding chapter of the ‹rst edition. At 139: “Ex hac namque postrema, non modo sententia nostra, de vera accubitus forma, quam primi forsan omnium, Romae Octavio Pantagatho, Onuphrio Panvino [sic], aliisque gravissimis viris, et postremo Patavii Ligorio, absque marmoris ullius testimonio, ac sola conjectura, proposuimus, librorumque auctoritatibus tutati sumus, apertissime con‹rmatur quaeque fuerint veterum triclinia perspicuo cognoscitur, immo vero Lambini, ac aliorum qui ex ingeniis accubitum variis modis describere aggressi sunt, opiniones refelluntur.” Ibid. 157–59: “Petrus Ciaconus, et Fulvius Ursinus rerum antiquitarum peritissimi quique, multis annis post meam Gymnasticam, De triclinio scripserunt . . . atque si aequus lector nostras cogitationes illorum scriptis comparare velit, certe statim animadvertet, fere quicquid hac de re boni dixerunt, e nostro libro [eos] accepisse.” The accusation against Chacon and Orsini ‹rst appeared in Mercuriale 1601, 67 on the extent to which it was justi‹ed, see Agasse 2001, 28–34. The issue of Roman dining posture and the arrangements at the Last Supper continued to preoccupy Roman antiquaries and naturalists later in the century; see, in the present volume, chapter 5, “History, Antiquarianism, and Public Health,” and sources there cited. 99. Mercuriale 2006, 1.6, p. 49; 1.8, p. 69; 2.12, 123–25 (1672, 168–71). 100. Daniele Barbaro (1514–70) was the author of an Italian translation of and commentary on Vitruvius (Venice, 1556, 1567). In addition, a Latin translation of Barbaro’s commentary was published in conjunction with a Latin edition of Vitruvius’s De architectura (Venice, 1567). 101. Mercuriale 2006, 1.6, pp. 53–57. For Vitruvius’s description of the ancient palaestra, see De architectura 5.11; for Palladio on the same subject, see Palladio 1980, 3.21, pp. 241–42. 102. Mercuriale 1573, 3.1, p. 132 (1672, 180): “quae confuse de singulis simul, vel


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indistincte saltem ab auctoribus tam Graecis, quam Latinis tradita fuerunt, ex distinctionibus nostris perfecte discerni possent, neque ulla lectoribus errandi occasio relinqueretur.” 103. Mercuriale 1573, 3.8, p. 214 (1672, p. 214): “alia temporis diuturnitate asperitateque obsoleverunt, alia dif‹cili obscuritate depravata sunt[.]” 104. Book 4 of De arte gymnastica, on the use of exercise in general, discusses these topics. 105. Mercuriale 1573, 6.13, pp. 305–8 (1672, 384–87); 6.7, p. 290 (1672, 365). 106. Mercuriale 1573, 2.3, p. 82 (1672, 118); 5.5, p. 244 (1672, 311). 107. Mercuriale 1573, 3.2, pp. 133–34 (1672, 181): “Quantum commodi humanae huic vitae deambulatio praestet, satis aperte sapientissima natura demonstravit, quae miri‹co quodam arti‹cio, singularique, et prope divina providentia nobis pedes non ob aliud fabricavit, nisi ut deambulare, atque deambutantes actiones . . . perficere valeremus. . . . Deambulatio ergo, quam veluti necessariam, atque in primis commodam sive natura, sive Deus nobis tribuerunt, quanto studio custodienda, atque adjuvanda sit, nullus non videt; eo praesertim, quod si ullae exercitationes corporis inveniuntur, quae valetudinem conservare, imbellicitatem a morbo contractam pellere, et bonum corpori habitum comparare valeant, quaeque apud omnes homines, omnesque nationes in frequentiori usu sint, una profecto existit deambulatio.” 108. Mercuriale 1624, Tomus tertius (separate pagination and separate title page, listing publication as Venice, 1597), 104v–105v, consilium “Pro Reverendo Domino Iustiniano Cataneo laborante nimia pinguedine.” 109. Mercuriale 1573, title page: “Opus non modo medicis, verum etiam omnibus antiquarum rerum cognoscendarum, et valetudinis conservandae studiosis admodum utile.” 110. Such themes recur several times in Mercuriale 2006, 1.6–8, 45–83. 111. Mercuriale 1573, iir–ivv. On Mercuriale’s concern to establish care for the appearance of the body (which he sharply distinguished from the use of arti‹cial cosmetics in a manner somewhat similar to his distinction between legitimate and illegitimate forms of gymnastica) as a valid part of medicine, see Gadebusch Bondio 2004; 2005, 95–109. 112. See note 73 to this chapter. 113. Lange 1589, letters 50–51, “De veteri balnearum fabrica et usu” and “De veteri palaestrae, et in ea balnearum structura, ac olei et strigmentorum usu,” pp. 247–66. On Lange (1485–1565) and his epistles, see Nutton 1984; 1985, 91–96, and chapter 2 in this volume. 114. For example, see Poliziano 1978, in which the editors stress (48, 50) the presence of antiquarian elements, as well as philology. Another in›uential author who adopted a similar format and title was Caelius Rhodiginus, on whom see Marangoni 1997. 115. Lipsius 1569.The connection may lie in the Low Countries origin of Mercuriale’s editor, Andreas Silvius Brugensis. 116. Mercuriale 1570, preface by Andreas Silvius Brugensis, a3r. 117. Mercuriale 1570, 2.8, 42v–43v, “De aquarum per plumbum ductarum pravitate, et quod Romae ex fontibus potarent, locus Paterculi emendatus” (the remark quoted is from fol. 43r). For Ligorio’s views, see Gaston 1988a, 174–75.

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118. Nutton 1990a, 304–7, points this out. 119. Hippocrates 1588, preface to the reader, +iiir–v. The author of the preface, Michele Colombo, was a student of Mercuriale and prepared a number of his works for publication. 120. On Conring’s career and signi‹cance for various ‹elds of learning in Germany, see Stolleis 1983a; Hermann Conring, 1606–1681, 1981–82. On Conring as historian and political thinker, see Fasolt 2004. For Conring’s endorsement of Harvey, see Rosner 1983, 89–91. 121. Conring 1648, 1669. See further chapter 7 in the present volume. 122. Conring 1645; a second edition appeared in Helmstedt in 1652; in the present chapter, unless otherwise noted, citations are from the third edition, Conring 1666. There are two eighteenth-century editions: Hermann Conring, De habitus corporum germanicorum antiqui ac novi causis liber singularis. Annotationibus uberrimis dilucidavit Jo. Philippus Burggravius , Fil. Doctor Medicus Francofurti ad Moenum (Frankfurt, 1727), which I have not seen; and the version included in Conring 1970 (a facsimile reprint of the 1730 edition of Conring’s Opera, edited by Johann William Göebel, with Göebel’s editorial notes), 5:222–53. In my text the title of the work is abbreviated to De habitu corporum. 123. Dedicatory epistle to Conring 1645 (and 1652 edition), in Conring 1970, 5:223; for the commentary by Dr. Johann Philipp Burggrave, see previous note. 124. On the size of the early Germans, compare Conring 1645, A4r; Conring 1666, 8–11. Conring 1666 (25–27) includes critical discussion of Hippocrates’ Airs Waters Places not present in Conring 1645 (B3v); an expanded discussion of ancient milk products in Conring 1666 (64–65) includes citations of Galen not present in Conring 1645 (F4v); Conring 1666 (120 bis [misprint for 130]) includes a citation of Maurice de la Corde’s commentary on Hippocrates’ Liber prior de morbis mulierum (Paris, 1585) not present in Conring 1645. Hammerstein 1983, especially 220–24, stresses that the purpose in most of Conring’s works was political. Dedicatory epistle of Conring 1645 and Conring 1652 in Conring 1970, 5:223: “Fuit autem hoc quidem eo jucundius, quo speculatio isthaec in intimiora naturalis philosophiae et medicae artis, queis praecipue vitam addixi, penetralia me quasi manu duxit. Non tamen vel hasce meditationes meas publicare facile instituissem, nisi mihi persuaderem, fore ut ex earum lectione nonnihil utilitatis in commune sit redundaturum. . . . Si et illa spes decollet, et boni viri et boni medici of‹cio tamen functus sum: qui studuerim pro virile recte monendo antevertere morbos, et corpora ad pacis et belli artes idonea praeparare.” 125. On the transmission and reception of Tacitus, see Reynolds 1983, 407–9; G. Conte 1994, 543; Etter 1966; Momigliano 1947, 1990; Schellhase 1976; Morford 1993; Soll 2000. Conring himself published an edition of and commentary on the Germania: C. Cornelii Taciti de moribus Germanorum liber: Accedunt praeter alia, de rebus Germaniae antiquae, ex priscis monumentis excerpta Ex recensione H. Conringii. Cum ejusdem de usu historiae et reipublic. Germanicae notitia praefatione, hujusque a calumnia vindiciis (Helmstedt, 1652). It is included in Conring 1970, vol. 5, where it is followed by a collection of historical excerpts on the early Germans. On themes of change and decadence in seventeenth-century German historical and political writing, see Kühlmann 1982, part 1. 126. Conring 1666, 7–10. 127. Conring 1666, 37: “colligere non est, omne prorsus mortale genus pleniore quondam fuisse incremento; non magis, atque omnes tum gigantea forma eminuisse.”


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128. Conring 1666, 11. The prose account of Charlemagne and Roland falsely attributed to their contemporary Archbishop Turpin was actually composed in the early twelfth century and versi‹ed, as the Karollelus, around 1200; see Karolellus 1996, v–vii and, for Charlemagne’s size, 78–79. As mentioned earlier in the present chapter, Hadrianus Junius had made the same point about the unreliability of medieval accounts of Charlemagne, though without naming pseudo-Turpin’s work. 129. Conring 1666, 24. 130. Conring 1666, 25–27, 41 (citing Hippocrates Airs Waters Places 12–13). At 41: “Verum, quod pace tantorum dixerim virorum [sc. Hippocrates and Pliny]: qui quidem totis plagis habitus corporum dividunt, nae illi leviter orbem hunc terrarum oculis et cogitatione transmittunt. Ecquid enim notius, in pari plaga, in eodem tractu, insignia esse corporum discrimina? Quin imo nihil est certius notiusve, quam una in provincia, imo una in urbe, maximam reperiri diversitatem.” 131. Clüver 1631, 94. The Germania antiqua was ‹rst published in 1616. Clüver (Cluverius, 1580–1622) was a protégé of Joseph Scaliger at Leiden; see Grafton 1983–93, 2:390–91. 132. Conring 1666, 124, cites Bodin, “in Historiae methodo.” 133. Bodin 1951, 140–67. Regarding Bodin’s modi‹cations of the theory of climate and attempts to deal with inconsistencies in ancient authors, see Couzinet 1996, 163–87; and Lestringant 1982. 134. Bodin 1951, 140; Conring 1666, 40. 135. Conring 1666, 31–42. 136. Conring 1666, 30. 137. Conring 1666, 27–30; Hippocrates Airs Waters Places 14. 138. For example, see Tacitus Germania 22, on drunkenness and brawling. 139. Conring 1666, 57–58: “Nulla potest cui dubitatio hac in re superesse, qui noverit duo cum primis esse necessaria ad omnem corporum accretionem, caloris nempe vim, et, si non omnium partium, saltim earum quae corpus erigunt, cujusmodi sunt ossa, mollitiem quandam et lentitudinem. Ossa enim quo diutius et amplius humiditate sua nativi ignis nostri impetum sequi idonea sunt, eo felicius insurgunt.” The terms “radical moisture” (humidum radicale) and “innate heat” (calidum innatum) seem to have originated in the Middle Ages; on sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century transformations of the underlying concepts, especially by Fernel and Harvey, see Bono 1995, 85–122; Hall 1975, 1:198–205, 241–50. Conring published his own De calido innato: sive igne animali liber unus (Helmstedt, 1647), in which he was strongly critical of the views of Fernel and stressed the connection of innate heat with the heart and blood. 140. Conring 1666, 60–73. 141. Conring 1666, 81–91. At 82: “ Majoribus vero nostris omnem illam rigidam gymnasticam disciplinam ignoratam, nec prima aetate quidquam nisi ex voluntate actum iam ex Caesare et aliis constat.” 142. Conring 1666, 104, 114. 143. Conring 1666, 89–90, 97–98. At 90: “Factum enim illud, explorandorum per magicas vires natalium caussa, non roborandi corporis; quod satis diserte iidem illi auctores sunt testati. Perinde fortassis atque hodie, vetustissimo inter Germanos more, daemoniaci foederis suspecti aquae frigidae innatatione indicantur.” In the margin of 98: “Nec tamen infantilium corporum in frigidam mersio multum nocuisset.”

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144. Conring 1666, 89. On these illustrations and their in›uence, see Waal 1952, 1:178–203, with English summary at 326–28; Egmond and Mason 1997, 168–84. 145. Conring 1666, dedicatory letter ): ( 2v–): ( 3r: “Argumentum fateor ex artis Medicae Naturalisque Philosophiae penu tantum non omne depromptum est. . . . Adhoc non illum scribendi characterem, quo in reliquis et Medicis et Philosophicis voluminibus uti soleo, . . . adhibui, sed alium longe ›oridiorem[.]” 146. Conring 1666, 61: “Nec vero breviore tempore majus incrementum capiunt animantia, quam dum pascuntur hoc ex maternis uberibus educto succo. Quin videas prae aliis laete adolescere, quibus hoc cibo contigit diutius frui.” 147. Conring 1666, 111–18. 148. The only other medical writers mentioned are Dioscorides, Avicenna, and Averroës (Conring 1666, 136: “acutissimis profecto viris”) and, among the moderns, Fracastoro, Laurent Joubert, and the Hippocratic commentators Rodrigo Fonseca and Maurice de la Corde. 149. On Conring’s Aristotelianism, see Stolleis 1983a, 26–30. In the dedicatory letter to Conring 1666, on ): ( 3r, Conring refers to “Aristoteles meus.” Other philosophical authors cited once or twice include Lucretius, Plato, and Seneca; Conring also made use of ancient technological treatises, notably the works of Columella, Vegetius, and Vitruvius. Among the very few recent works on natural history cited is the Dissertatio de glossopetris of Fabio Colonna (1567–1650), which was originally published in Rome in 1616 and reproduced in facsimile with Italian translation in Morello 1979, 70–91. On Colonna’s work, see ibid., 28–37, 64–69. 150. Conring 1666, 8, 13, 18, 141. 151. In addition to a long list of ancient historians, the sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century histories and travel accounts, noted here in the editions I consulted, include the following (this is not a complete list): Belon 2001; Chif›et 1988; M. Freher 1613; Leodius 1612–13; Jonsson 1593 (in which Jonsson [1568–1648] attempted to debunk such myths about his native Iceland as that it contained an entrance to hell); Linschoten 1599 (the original Dutch edition of Jan Huygen van Linschoten’s account of his voyage to India appeared in 1596); Fazello [1558] (the ‹rst section of the work is a chorography of Sicily, the second a history of that island); Acosta 1987 (a famous account of the Indies ‹rst published in Seville in 1590); a work of Jean du Tillet (d. 1570), perhaps his Recueil des roys de France (Paris, [1579]–80), which I cite from the bibliography assembled in E. Brown 1994, 185. Medieval chroniclers or historians cited include Jordanes, Gregory of Tours, Paul the Deacon, Einhard, Widukind of Corvey, and Saxo Grammaticus. 152. Conring 1666, 122.

chapter 2 1. Mercuriale 1597, 2: “Etenim historiae nomen etsi simpliciter narrationem apud Graecos signi‹cet, verum tamen historiarum tria genera reperiri certum est divinum naturale et humanum. Divinum est in quo res sacrae narrantur, ut sunt libri sacri seu biblia. Naturale, ut libri Aristotelis de historia animalium, libri Theophrasti de historia


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plantarum, Plinii historia naturalis. Humanum, ut sunt libri, qui vel actiones hominum narrant, vel animi humani naturam, ut appellat Aristoteles libros suos de Anima historiam, vel corporis universam compaginem.” For Bodin’s formulation in the ‹rst chapter of his Methodus ad facilem historiarum cognitionem, see Bodin 1951, 114 (the Methodus was ‹rst published in 1566). Resemblance does not, of course, necessarily imply dependence. For Mercuriale’s career, see chapter 1 in the present volume. 2. Mercuriale 1597, 2: “Verum neque sic praecise appellamus historias quas vulgus medicorum vocat etiamnum casus, quorum copia magna praeter Hippocratem est quoque apud Galenum. Atque huiusmodi Hippocratis narratio diversa est a narratione aliorum historicorum, quod omnia contingentia narrent, Hippocrates autem, ut ait Galenus, nequaquam omnia . . . qui libro secundo de dif‹cultate respirantis capite septimo, comparans historiam Thucididis, qui descripsit libro secundo Atheniensem pestem, et Hippocratis qui de eadem locutus est in libros Epidemiarum.” Compare Galen De dif‹cultate respirationis 2.7, in Galen 1549, 258. For an evaluation of Galen as historian, see Von Staden 1991. 3. For these connections, see the editors’ introduction to Pomata and Siraisi 2005; Pomata 2005. 4. Fabrizi’s De formato foetu was ‹rst published in Venice in 1600. The dedicatory letter appears in facsimile in Fabrizi 1967, 2:463–70 (with English translation at 1:237–45). 5. See Agrimi and Crisciani 1994. For summary and further bibliography regarding narratives about cases in late medieval and Renaissance medicine before the sixteenth century, see Siraisi 1997, 201–4 and bibliography there cited. On the development of case history, collections of observationes, and similar productions in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, see Pomata 1996; Nance 2001, especially chapter 2. 6. On the development and uses of exempla in medieval and Renaissance medicine, see Crisciani forthcoming; Gadebusch-Bondio forthcoming. On narrative in medieval surgical works, see, for example, Siraisi 1994a; for examples of thirteenth-century consilia, Alderotti 1997. 7. Crisciani 2005. On Savonarola, see also the introduction to the present volume, especially note 25 and the bibliography there cited. 8. Agrimi and Crisciani 1994. 9. U. Benzi 1951. 10. Well-known collections of medical epistles include Manardo (the name also appears as Mainardi) 1521 (and a number of subsequent early editions); Massa 1550; and a large collection of consilia and epistolae by Johann Crato von Kraftheim and others, edited by Lorenz Scholz and published in numerous parts and editions between the 1590s and the mid-seventeenth century. Examples of medical collections of variae lectiones include, in addition to the work of Mercuriale discussed in chapter 1 in the present volume, Salviani 1588 and Hofmann 1619; on the genre, see Blair 2006. 11. Augenio 1602, 7.2, “De farre, halica, condro, trago,” 76v–77r. 12. Lange 1589, book 1, letters 29, 36, 50, 51, 53; book 2, letters 2, 12, 46. Book 1 of this collection was ‹rst published in 1544; it was augmented with book 2 in an edition of 1560. The complete edition in three books appeared posthumously in 1589 and was reissued in 1605. See also in this volume, chapter 1, “Girolamo Mercuriale and GrecoRoman Physical Culture,” and note 113.

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13. Benivieni 1994. Another example is Ugolino da Montecatini 1553 (consulted in the version edited and somewhat restructured by P. C. Decembrio); on the appeal to wonder in Ugolino’s treatise, see Park 1999. 14. Pomata 1996. 15. Schenck 1665. Schenck (1530–98) published the ‹rst volume of his Observationes in 1584. I have consulted Foreest 1588, with the account of the Haarlem siege and epidemic in Observatio 26 (pp. 151–58); there are numerous other volumes of Foreest’s Observationes. On Foreest, see Bosman-Jelgersma [1996]. 16. Argenterio 1592, 3:81–118, with “Exemplum particulare ex superiore tractum” at 117–18; Capodivacca 1599, 165–75. 17. On the early development of autopsy, see Park 1994; Paravicini Bagliani 1994, 194–95; Georges 1999. On fourteenth- to early sixteenth-century openings of women’s bodies (for purposes other than academic instruction) and for a new interpretation of the signi‹cance of such events for the development of anatomy, see Park 2006; my thanks to Katharine Park for allowing me to read her book before publication. On the history of autopsy in relation to changing concepts of disease, see Temkin 1963; for an overview of the technical development of the practice, King and Meehan 1973. 18. Coiter 1573, 106–33; on Coiter (1534–76), see Herrlinger 1952; Bonet 1679. 19. Cartier 1986, 169–70; Gassendi 1992, 314–15; Incisa Della Rocchetta et al. 1957–63. For some further general discussion of sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century autopsies, see Harley 1994; Siraisi 1998, 2001c. 20. On retroactive or historical aspects of astrology, see Grafton 1999, chapter 5. 21. Wier 1567, 49. 22. Turquet de Mayerne 1695, 144–54. Mayerne attributed the disease to Casaubon’s forgetfulness about the need to urinate: “ita ut a corpore veluti abstracta mens, nec incommoda sentiret, neque muneribus necessariis vacaret, vel ad corporis vilia of‹cia se demittere dignaretur” (149). Arnald of Villanova (d. 1311) claimed that notaries were especially subject to kidney and bladder diseases for similar reasons; see Arnald of Villanova 1585, 174. I owe the latter reference to Chiara Crisciani. On Mayerne’s casebooks, compiled in the years 1605–40, see Nance 2001. On Casaubon’s illness and death, see further Pattison 1892, 412–17 and bibliography there cited. 23. Incisa della Rocchetta et al. 1957–63, 2:260, no. 241 (Vittori); Vittori 1613. 24. Schenck 1600, book 2, observatio 166, p. 441. 25. I make no attempt to provide a full bibliography of Renaissance Hippocratism. Valuable studies include the following: Mercati 1917; Lonie 1985; Smith 1979, 13–19; Nutton 1989; H. King 2002; Rütten 2002. For Renaissance editions and translations of the Hippocratic corpus, see Maloney and Savoie 1982. For the medieval Latin Hippocrates, see Kibre 1985. 26. See Arrizabalaga 1998. 27. A few sixteenth-century commentaries on the Aphorisms were, however, very long-lived. Examples of late seventeenth- and even eighteenth-century editions include the commentaries by Rodriga de Fonseca (d. 1622) in 1708 (1st ed. 1591), arranged as usually needed for the puncta examination; Johann van Heurne (d. 1601) in 1690, with added histories, observations, cautions and remedies; and Jacques Houllier (d. 1562) in 1675 (posthumous 1st ed. 1582 from a student’s notes) all according to the online catalog of the National Library of Medicine). Santing 1996 calls attention to an interesting example of a humanist rearrangement of the Aphorisms for teaching.


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28. Airs Waters Places had been translated into Latin, though not, as far as is known, commented on, during the Middle Ages (Kibre 1985, no. II, 25–28). The older translation remained so little known that a sixteenth-century commentator assumed that Marco Fabio Calvo (d. ca. 1527) had been the ‹rst translator: “Calvus, qui primus, quod sciam, hunc librum in Latinum convertit sermonem” (Settala 1590, 4). Before the ‹fteenth century, the Epidemics was known to medieval western Europe only in partial Latin translation (Kibre 1985, no. XIX, 138–42). But by the mid-1520s, both Airs Waters Places and all seven books of the Epidemics were available in print in Latin and Greek collected editions of almost the complete Hippocratic corpus, namely, Hippocrates 1525 and 1526. A Latin translation of the Epidemics made by Manente Leontine between 1513 and 1521 was never printed, but other translations followed; see Mazzini 1989. For an extremely detailed account of the textual tradition of Airs Waters Places, see Jouanna’s introduction and notes to Hippocrates 1996. 29. On this point, see also Rütten 2002. 30. See Grafton and Jardine 1986; Grendler 1989; Blair 1995. 31. See Schmitt 1983; Lohr 1988; Siraisi 1987a, chapters 6–8. 32. See Buck and Herding 1975; Pade 2005; Häfner and Völkel 2006. On the shift from general commentary of the sort written by many ‹fteenth-century humanists to the type of precise annotation of speci‹c points practiced by Poliziano, see Grafton 1991b. On humanist commentary, see also Soudek 1958. On Mattioli, see Ferri 1997. 33. Hippocrates 1532. 34. See Lonie 1978, 49; Nutton 1989, 423; Siraisi 1997, 125–26; Smith 1979, 172–75. 35. Scaliger’s exposition of the Hippocratic On Wounds of the Head roused the ire of medical professors by claiming, correctly, that they tended to put medical usefulness ahead of philological exactitude in their reading of the work (Grafton 1983–93, 1:180–82). On Poliziano and his circle and Galen’s commentary on the Aphorisms (including the Hippocratic text), see Campana 1961; Perosa 1980. 36. Nutton 1985. 37. On these commentaries (some of the authors of which were, however, university professors), see Rütten 1996. 38. Lonie 1985. 39. Siraisi 1987a, 77 and documents cited; Franceschini 1970, 249–50. 40. Grafton and Jardine 1986, 83–98; Siraisi 1997, 129. 41. Da Monte 1554, [*viiir]. An editorial preface explains that Da Monte only got as far as the second case history before his death, leaving the commentary to be completed by his students. On Da Monte, see Bylebyl 1991 and bibliography there cited. 42. Da Monte 1554, 1r: “primum igitur propositum erit videre, qua ratione accesserim ad interpretandum hunc librum cum alioqui a nemine usquam sit solitus interpretari: secundo cur potius ab ista parte diminuta inceperim, et non a principio libri.” 43. Siraisi 1987a, 85–87 and documents cited. 44. Pisa, Archivio di Stato, MS G 77, rotuli, professorial appointments, and salaries, 167. 45. For his teaching at Pisa, see De Rosa 1983, 111 and note 97. 46. Pisa, Archivio di Stato, MS G 77, 227–28, 242–43. 47. Mercuriale 1597, 1–2: “Cur hoc tempore, et hoc anno historias Epidemicas Hippocratis Coi vobis exponere deliberaverim, multae me rationes sunt hortatae; Prima fuit

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huiusce mei ingenii condicio, quod cum aegre bis eadem retractet, libenterque in iis versetur, quae ab aliis, aut certe a paucissimis tentata sunt, huiusmodi tractatio ea est, in qua vix invenire est quemquam professorem publicum, qui eam interpretari, et in publicis gymnasiis coram auditoribus, enucleare voluerit. Dixi enim ‘vix’ quoniam etsi Montanus vir celeberrimus hoc idem opus aggressus est, tamen praeventus morte, solum duas priores historias absolvere potuit. Secunda est, quoniam cum alias decreverim totum hoc quod mihi vitae superest, Deo primum serviendo Hippocrati auditoribus interpretando dicare, atque iampridem secundum librum Epidemiorum non absque fructu et studiosorum voluptate Bononiae sim interpretatus, haud visum est ab instituti mei ratione alienum, si etiam in celeberrima hac Academia similem illi materiam tractarem.” 48. For the example of Da Monte, see Bylebyl 1991. See also Nutton 1985; Lonie 1985. 49. Cardano, In librum Hippocratis de aere, aquis, et locis commentarii (‹rst published Basel, 1570; hereafter Cardano, AAL), in Cardano 1663, 8:1–212; Cardano, Commentarii tres in primum Epidemiorum Hippocratis librum. Commentarii duo in secundum Hippocratis [Epidemiorum] librum, in Cardano 1663, 10:168–387; Valles 1577; Settala 1590. On Cardano as physician, see Siraisi 1997. For his biography, see G. Gliozzi, “Cardano, Gerolamo,” DBI 19:759–63; Mario Gliozzi, “Cardano, Girolamo,” DSB 3:64–67. On the complicated history of the composition, revision, and publication of Cardano’s works, see Maclean’s introduction to Cardano 2004, 43–111; Maclean 1994. In the present and the following chapters, for the sake of ease of reference, I cite works of Cardano from modern editions (where these exist) and from the collected edition Cardano 1663 (facsimile 1967). To the extent possible, where sixteenth-century editions exist, I have also checked references in them. On Valles, see Martín Ferreira 1995, 58–64 and bibliography there cited; on Settala, Rota Ghibaudi 1959. 50. Siraisi 1997, 19–45. 51. Hippocrates 1737–39. The bibliography of Hippocratic editions and commentaries is found at 1:b3r–c2v. 52. Pigeaud 1996. I am grateful to Thomas Rütten for this reference. 53. At Paitoni’s death in 1788, the medical portion of his enormous library consisted chie›y of recent treatises on specialized subjects. He possessed one or two copies of most ancient medical works, but the only ancient medical author that he owned in multiple copies was Hippocrates. He had about 140 Hippocratic items, very many of them sixteenth-century imprints, including all the commentaries discussed in this chapter. Paitoni’s library is cataloged in Bibliotheca Paitoniana [1790?]; runs of Hippocratic imprints are found at 128, 134, 164–65, 170–71, 187–88. I have not seen Paitoni’s Terminazione degl’illustrissimi ed eccellentissimi signori sopra provveditori e provveditori alla sanità, published with Prima memoria dell’eccellente Dr. Francesco Vicentini intorno all’utilità dell’innesto del vajuolo and Secunda memoria dell’ eccellente Dr. Francesco Vicentini intorno alla scelta del miglior metodo d’innestare, and cite it from the online catalog of the National Library of Medicine. 54. Hippocrates 1737–39, 1:c3v: “Opus [sc. Settala’s commentary on Airs Waters Places] vere aureum, et medicorum manibus nunquam non tenendum.” 55. On the history of the practice of including a brief account of the commented author at the beginning of a commentary, see Mansfeld 1994. 56. The Greek text (Vita Hippocratis 1927, 4:175–78) was written some time between


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the second and the sixth centuries CE. On its relation to a lost bios by Soranus of Ephesus (second century CE) and to the accounts of Hippocrates in the Suda (tenth century), and by John Tzetzes (twelfth century), and to the twelfth-century Latin version, see Pinault 1992, 1–33. On the medieval Latin versions of a life of Hippocrates, see Kibre 1985, no. LIV, p. 233. 57. See Crisciani 1990. 58. Kibre 1985, no. XX, pp. 143–62. The Hippocratic pseudepigrapha are thought to date between the late fourth and the late second century BCE; see Pinault 1992, 43–44; Hippocrates 1990, 1–34 (editor’s introduction). 59. Regarding the various Latin translations of these writings and their publication, as well as translations into various European vernaculars and their in›uence on literature and art as well as medicine, see, with special reference to the letters concerning Hippocrates and Democritus, Rütten 1992, 144–213. 60. Hippocrates 1525; Hippocrates 1538 (in Greek, ed. Janus Cornarius); Hippocrates 1546 (new Latin translation by Cornarius). 61. Oddi 1564, 22v: “Et haec sunt quae de Hippocrate referenda erant, quantum ad rem nostram facit, neque enim expectetis velim uberius me disserentem nunc hoc loco de patria, de familia, de opibus, de corporis pulchritudine, et denique de ipsius Hippocratis vita, de quibus alii copiosos habuerunt, ut nostis, sermones, qui quamvis pro‹teantur se solos Hippocratis vitam recte illustrasse, quicquid tamen dixerunt; et plura quoque unusquisque perlegere ex operibus Hippocratis potest Basilicae impressis anno MDXXVI, in quibus de illius vita ex Sorani historiis legitur. Accedit adhoc, quod cum haec ad historicum potius pertineant, quam ad medicum, cuius munus esse debet veram medicinae methodum, et praecepta explicare, quibus artis scopum contingere possit, propterea non puto eum servare medici dignitatem, qui his, quae artis suae sunt, omissis, totum suum studium, ut aliena declaret, impendit.” The reference is to Cratander’s edition of Marco Fabio Calvi’s Latin translation of the Hippocratic corpus (the frontispiece of which is reproduced in Figure 4 of this volume). 62. Sanches [Sanchez] 1636, 808–26. At 808: “Liber de arte. . . . Omnem corporis ventrem, ›atu in sanis impleri, sanie in aegris, non est rationi consentaneum, etiamsi per ›atum, spiritum intelligat. . . . De veteri medicina. . . . Et falsum est accutissimos dolores in hepate ‹eri”; at 825: “De internis affectibus. Neque hic ab Hippocrate valde abhorret, quamvis in morborum curatione a communi nostra differat: omnia enim tempus immutat. Idem dicendum et de libro . . . De morbis muliebribus.” On Sanches (1551–1623), a professor and practitioner of medicine at Toulouse, see Elaine Limbrick’s introduction to Sanches 1988. 63. La Corde had been a pupil of Louis Duret at Paris in the 1550s; see La Corde 1585, ciir; Lonie 1985. For La Corde’s citations of Aulus Gellius, see La Corde 1585, ciir–ciiv. On Renaissance use of Hippocratic gynecological texts, see H. King 1999. 64. La Corde 1585, cr: “Scitum quidem est et omnibus perspectum, iisce saltem, qui quia se Peripateticos esse iudicant, eoque nomine aliis se praecellere quodam iure exultantes gloriantur; Aristotelem perstudiosum divini Platonis, qui primus Academiam instituerat, auditorem fuisse. At autem aeque notum non est quibusque, Platonem tantundem in Academia excelluisse docendo, quantum ipse poterat . . . ea quae ab Hippocrate inventa quondam fuerant scriptaque dilatare inter disserendum, et eadem explicando ampli‹care.”

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65. Smith 1979, 86–90, cites and discusses Galen’s arguments—in De placitis Hippocratis et Platonis and other works—that both Plato and Aristotle obtained major parts of their teaching from Hippocrates. 66. Cardano, Commentarii in Hippocratis Aphorismos (‹rst published Basel, 1564), proem to book 7, in Cardano 1663, 8:532: “Ab his tota philosophia Peripatetica de›uxit, adeo ut quicquid habemus traditum ab Aristotele de huiusmodi sensilibus principiis, id totum ipsi Hippocrati debeamus.” This, too, is a Galenic echo. See Smith 1979, 86 and passage there cited. Cardano, Contradicentium medicorum libri, 10.26, in Cardano 1663, 6:910; in the same work, Cardano also drew on Hippocrates for a discussion of the immortality of the soul (6.10; Cardano 1663, 6:764) (Cardano published collections of contradicentia in 1545, 1548, and 1564, but these include only part of the version of the work in Cardano 1663; see Maclean’s introduction to Cardano 2004, 51–52.) On the importance of Hippocrates in Cardano’s philosophical ideas, see Ingegno 1980, 23–34. 67. La Corde 1585, cv: “obscura dicta Hippocratis tanquam oracula quaedam apud se contineret Plato ille divinus, quae et tanta sedulitate legeret, et legendo tam studiose meditaretur, et quod meditando occurrerat ab Hippocrate dictum obscurius, tentaret id pro sua virili semper planius aliquanto et explicatius in Academia sua reddere.” 68. For discussion and citations, see Siraisi 1997, 139. 69. For example, the titles of both Foës 1560 and La Corde 1585 characterize Hippocrates as princeps medicorum. Other examples could be added. But see also H. King 2002. 70. Memm 1577, B4v: “etiamsi eius scripta non testarentur, facilis est ex rebus certissimis coniectura.” I am grateful to Thomas Rütten for providing me with a photocopy of this commentary. On the Renaissance fortuna of the Oath, see Rütten 1999, 1996. 71. Meibom 1643, 4–7 (my thanks to Thomas Rütten for kindly providing me with a photocopy of this commentary). Meibom (1590–1655) acknowledged his dependence on and amalgamation of trees previously constructed by Reinerus Reineccius and Hieronymus Henninges. Hippocrates’ family tree appears in Reineccius 1594, 1:416–19. Henninges (1563–97) was the author of a number of genealogical works; that referred to is most likely his Theatrum genealogicum ostentans omnes omnium aetatum familias: monarcharum, regum, ducum, marchionum, principum, comitum, atque illustrium heroum et heroinarum, item philosophorum, oratorum, historicorum . . . (Magdeburg: Typis & sumtibus Ambrosii Kirchneri, 1598), which I have not seen. 72. Da Monte 1554, 2v : “nec Philippus nec Alexander magnus, ne aliquis alius nec fuit nobilior ipso: Hoc dico, ne quis forte putaret medicinam ignobilem esse: quia non habuerit illustres viros.” 73. Da Monte 1554, 2v, 1v. 74. L’Alemant 1557b, 1r and similarly 164r. In a second Hippocratic commentary, on De ›atibus, L’Alemant expanded further on biographical anecdotes about Hippocrates and on his role in curing the plague of Athens; see L’Alemant 1557a, 13. 75. Vesalius 1543, 1.11, p. 46. Koerner 1993, 37, 43. 76. Esteve 1551, 1v. 77. See Kibre and Siraisi 1975 (edition and translation of Matteolo’s text), 408, 421–22. Matteolo was the teacher at Padua of Hartmann Schedel, a physician with much more pronounced historical interests (ibid., 408 n. 1).


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78. Meibom 1643, 2–4, 10–12. 79. L’Alemant 1557b, 4r–v: “prius observatrices (quas lucri participes faciunt, aut quibus nummos annuatim numerant) super his quae pertinent ad aegros, interrogant, et earum observatione instructi non verentur quid aegro contigerit af‹rmare. . . . O dignam praxin, et omni laude praedicandam, in qua mentiri docetur, et per vetulas quaestus habetur: quam praestantissimi medendi magistri Hippocrates et Galenus si reviviscerent admirarentur, approbarent, optarent!” 80. L’Alemant 1557b, 5r. 81. On the debates over the causes of epidemics, see Nutton 1983, 1990b; Arrizabalaga, Henderson, and French 1997, 56–126. For Pico’s views on medical astrology, see Pico della Mirandola 1946–52 (‹rst published 1496), 3.16–19, 1:322–63. 82. The astronomical material in the Hippocratic corpus as a whole is very slight, but much of that small amount is concentrated in the Epidemics and Airs Waters Places; see Wenskus 1990, 90–123. On the supposed Astronomia Ypocratis, see Kibre 1984. 83. Airs Waters Places 2.14–24, in Hippocrates 1923a, 72–73. 84. Settala 1590, 45: “Signi‹cat [Hippocrates] autem per astra tam planetas quam coelestia alia sydera: scimus enim quantas mutationes in mundo hoc inferiori producant coelestia haec corpora, tum per se, tum etiam ubi notabiles con‹gurationes, et coniunctiones magnas fecerint: et praecipue, quae in contrariis sunt domibus[.]” The passage continues to 55. The limitation on the proper medical uses of astrology appears at 52: “Astronomiae alteram partem, quae est de praecognitione ex facultatibus astrorum, omnino reiiciamus.” 85. Baldini 1586, 57. 86. Esteve 1551, 2, 4r–13r. The reference to Regiomontanus occurs at 5v. According to Esteve (4v), citing Galen, “erubescere quivis [medicus] huius scientiae [astronomiae] ignarus deberet.” 87. L’Alemant 1557a, 3v–4r. The tables relating weather conditions to the ‹xed stars for every day of the year occupy 30v–42bv. L’Alemant drew this material from a translation by Leoniceno of Ptolemy’s Phaseis aplanon asteron, a work transmitting one of the oldest forms of Greek interest in the stars, which long predated planetary astronomy; see G. J. Toomer, “Ptolemy,” DSB 11:197. 88. L’Alemant 1557a, 46v: “Quamvis superstitiosa illa siderum observatio per quam futuri eventus ex horoscopo et vocatis annorum revolutionibus praenunciantur, et quae cuique negocio peragendo, vesti vel incidendae vel induendae certas prae aliis horas praescribit, ab omni repub. cum suis autoribus sit reiicienda, ut recte contendit Manardus.” This is perhaps somewhat disingenuous, since Manardo had speci‹cally opposed medical astrology; see Zambelli 1965, with an edition of the text of Manardo’s letter to Martin Mellerstadt at 1:260–79. 89. L’Alemant 1557b, 45v–46r. At 46r: “Quamobrem mihi neque Picus, neque quisquam alius persuaserit, sidera nullos habere effectus in elementis, et in animatum corporibus.” 90. Cardano, Commentarii in libros Prognosticorum Hippocratis (‹rst published Basel, 1568), in Cardano 1663, 8:594. 91. Cardano, AAL, lectio 12, in Cardano 1663, 8:21–22. 92. Cardano, AAL, in Cardano 1570, copy in the collection of the Herzog August Bibliothek, Wolfenbüttel, with manuscript annotation; added manuscript notes on 25: “Astrologia rationi convenit. Astrologia medico necessaria.”

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93. La Corde 1585, 3: “Namque opinare omnes omnis corporis partes, usum earum et connexiones non percalluisse Hippocratem perpulchre, nefas permagnum cogitatu, et dictu indignissimum homini praesertim philosopho, nedum medico.” 94. La Corde 1585, 3–4. Regarding the Renaissance dissemination of the pseudoHippocratic letter 17, which contains the story of Hippocrates’ encounter with Democritus, who was dissecting animals at the time, see Rütten 1992, 142–213. 95. Cardano, Commentarii in libros Prognosticorum Hippocratis, in Cardano 1663, 8:705: “Ita cum nunc invecta sit anatomia corporum humanorum ignota Galeno, atque Hippocratis aetate sic amissa[.]” See further Siraisi 1997, 142–45. 96. Galen 1525, vol. 3; Hippocrates 1531 (Maloney and Savoie 1982, no. 123). For other editions/translations of Galen’s commentaries on the Epidemics, see Durling 1961, 294–95. 97. Galen, In primum Hippocratis de morbis vulgaribus librum commentarius primus, in Galen 1549, 402–3: “si unum modum praemonuerim, id quod in multis iam a me libris conscriptis dixi, ubi illos qui student artem medicam perdiscere, ut se in singularibus, quae sensu apprehenduntur, exercitent, cohortor, ut ea quae ante didicerunt generatim, cognoscant.” 98. Galen, In primum Hippocratis de morbis vulgaribus librum commentarius tertius, in Galen 1549, 494. 99. Valles 1577, book 5, proem, 221v: “Interim lectores, si quae in libro hoc continentur, nolent ut Hippocrate accipere, tamen quae dicentur in commentariis, accipient ut mea.” 100. Potter 1989, 19. 101. Da Monte 1554, 28v. As already noted, Da Monte got only as far as the second case history. 102. Da Monte 1554, 2r–v: “nec librum aliquem magis utilem, et ad hoc praestandum magis idoneum inveni, quam lib. epid. et praecipue istam partem in qua traduntur et casus universales et particulares morborum. . . . Unde qui non sunt apti ad discurrendum erunt contenti sola observatione, qui autem speculantur poterunt discurrere usque ad prima principia.” 103. Valles 1577, 1r. 104. The entire volume of Mercuriale 1597 is divided into forty-two “historiae” (i.e., the fourteen cases in Epidemics 1 and the twenty-eight in Epidemics 3), headed respectively “Historia prima,” “Historia secunda,” and so on. 105. Mercuriale 1597, 5. 106. Mercuriale 1597, 6: “Philiscus enim hic ille idem fuit cuius meminit secunda constitutione, secundo in primum Epid. et textus 62. Plinius lib. 11 cap. 9 mentionem facit cuiusdam Philisci Thasii, qui maximo amore captus fuit erga apes, de quibus etiam scripsit; unde existimo in Thaso hoc nomen fuisse usitatum. Fuerunt etiam alii Philisci ut auditor Diogenis, qui ad eum audiendum peregrinatus est, fuit etiam quidam tragicus[.]” 107. Mercuriale 1597, 30. 108. Mercuriale 1597, [1]52. 109. Esteve 1551, 67r; according to the modern divisions of Epidemics 2, the commented passage is Epidemics 2.2.7. 110. Mercuriale 1597, 67, 74, 88, and elsewhere.


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111. Mercuriale 1597, 109–10: “Atque illud observandum venit magistrum nostrum in historiis exempla nobis proposuisse omnis sexus, atque omnis aetatis, ut simul ostenderet praecepta, atque regulas artis esse in cunctis verissimas, ac propterea qui circa has aliasque erunt versati, totius medicinae vera semina habituros.” 112. Mercuriale 1597, 87; Hermocrates is the patient in the second case in Epidemics 3. 113. La Corde 1585, 38–39, 67, 211. 114. Settala 1590, 4: “Comprehendit enim praecepta non modo medicinae, sed etiam physiologiae, astrologiae, et cosmographiae quamplurima.” 115. See, in the present study, chapter 1, notes 10 and 133. The extent to which humanist readers perceived the teaching of Airs Waters Places and the Tetrabiblos as related is well illustrated by Cardano’s justi‹ed complaint that L’Alemant’s commentary on Airs Waters Places plagiarized the content of his own commentary on the Tetrabiblos (see Siraisi 1997, 129). 116. L’Alemant 1557b, 230r–v: “hoc libro quem commentariis illustravimus, non ut hominum rumusculos aucuparemur et aerem popularem quaereremus: sed ut Reip. (laudabili fortassis conatu) aliquid contribueremus.” 117. L’Alemant 1557a, *2v, 47–48. 118. Fabroni 1792, 261–62. Presumably, this Baccio Baldini belonged to the same family as the earlier Florentine engraver of the same name. 119. Baldini 1578. In addition to the life of Cosimo, the volume includes, in a second series of pagination, the author’s Panegirico della clemenza, Orazione fatta nell’Accademia Fiorentina in lode del serenissimo sig. Cosimo Medici gran duca di Toscana gloriosa memoria and Discorso della vertu, et della fortuna del Sig. Cosimo Medici primo Gran Duca di Toscana; in a third series of pagination (with separate title page), his Discorso dell’essenza del fato e delle forze sue sopra le cose del mondo, e particolarmente sopra l’operazione de gl’huomini. The last work is a commentary on a canzone of Dante’s Purgatorio. 120. Baldini 1565. Another edition appeared in Rome in 1602. See Seznec 1981, 280–81. 121. Baldini 1586, 244–45. 122. Baldini 1586, 147; the whole section occupies 146–58. 123. Baldini 1586, 154. Monte Falterona, where the Arno rises, is 4,265 feet above sea level; the source of the Tiber at Pieve San Stefano (also in the Tuscan Appennines) is 4,160 feet above sea level. 124. Baldini 1586, 157. 125. Baldini, Vita di Cosimo, in Baldini 1578, 85: “quando egli la state s’andava a bagnare nel ‹ume d’Arno si come s’usa di fare a Firenze, cantava molto volentieri egli stesso con quei gentilhuomini che si bagnavan’ seco.” 126. For his career, see Rota Ghibaudi 1959, 1–23. Manzoni’s verbal portrait is in his I promessi sposi, chapter 31. 127. Lodovico Settala, De peste, et pestiferis affectibus (Milan, 1622) (which I have not seen and cite from the online catalog of the National Library of Medicine; for the dedication, see Rota Ghibaudi 1959, 19); Settala 1626 (there are a number of other early editions). 128. Rota Ghibaudi 1959 includes a complete bibliography of Settala’s works. See

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Settala 1930 for excerpts from Della ragion di stato and the editors’ note on him (298); see also Rota Ghibaudi 1959, 23, 28. Settala 1626, 7: “aiebant [amici] nostros in Hippocratem et in Aristotelis Problemata commentarios itemque de naevorum varietate commentarios, quamvis ad ipsos medicinae fontes haud dubie pertinent, non tamen attingere consuetudinem, et usum artis.” 129. Cardano, AAL 7.83, in Cardano 1663, 8:155–56. For a fuller account of this passage, see Siraisi 1997, 143–44. The Hippocratic account of the women of the Sauromates, who preserved the customs attributed by Herodotus to the Amazons, occurs in Airs Waters Places 17. 130. Settala 1590, 440: “Cum vero hic constet, de Amazonibus sermonem haberi, et prius quidem historicum, cum multa videam, et pene fabulosa apud historicos, et poetas de iis scribi, quae fortasse etiam verioribus falsitatis suspicionem iniiciunt, operae pretium esse duxi, ea in medium proponere, quae a variis, et magni quidem nominis scriptoribus dicuntur de Amazonibus, ut ex iis invicem collatis, tandem quid in tanta rerum varietate, maxime ab antiquitate rei permanante dicendum sit, possimus statuere; maxime cum scriptorem exponamus mentiri nunquam solitum.” The discussion of ancient historians continues until 445. 131. Settala 1590, 445. 132. See Settala 1590, 397, for the Scythian origins of the Muscovites and Sarmatians. Matthias de Miechov (d. 1523) was the author of a Chronica Polonorum (Kraków, 1521) and Tractatus de duabus Sarmatiis, asiana et europeana et de contentis in eis (Augsburg, 1518). See Settala 1590, 448, for the reference to Herberstein, or Herberstain, whose Rerum Moscoviticarum commentarii was ‹rst published in 1549 (see further chapter 6 in the present volume). 133. Cardano AAL 7.96 in Cardano 1663, 8:185–87; Settala 1590, 445. See also chapter 7 in this volume. 134. Airs Waters Places 16. 135. L’Alemant 1557b, 164r–166r; Baldini 1586, 188. 136. L’Alemant 1557b, 179v–180r: “Sunt igitur Asiani timidiores et magis pusillanimes quam Europaei, propter aequalitatem temporum et coeli clementiam. Qui enim loca frigida inhabitant, saepe fortiores, quemadmodum consuevit esse gens laboribus indurata et exercitata, civilibus moribus non instructa, et quod calido innato abundent. Qui vero loca calida incolunt, timidiores. . . . Hinc Caesar [in margin: lib. 1] dicebat, Belgas omnium Gallorum fortissimos, quod non haberent ea quae ad animos effoeminandos pertinerent.” 137. L’Alemant 1557b, 210v–212r. At 211r–v: “. . . Hispanorum temperatura calidior sicciorque; et color niger et obscurus: Gallorum frigidior, humidior, caro mollis, et albicans color. . . . Galli maiore ferocia quam arte pugnant, et plus olim virium quam consilii in bella ferebant: Hispani contra. . . . Galli ore libero, Hispani taciturni, qui dissimulare melius norint. Galli leti, alacres, et in convivia proni, gravitatem siquidem, quam suo more servant Hispani, penitus refugiunt. . . . Foeminae Hispanicae aurea vel argentea virula aurium ima perforant, gemma aliqua ut plurimum appensa. Ligneo circulo ventrem ambiunt, ut latiore incessu pomposiores appareant.” 138. L’Alemant 1557b, 182v. 139. L’Alemant 1557b, 182r: “Hinc Romani cum in servitute non essent, toti terrarum orbi imperabant: nunc vero eorum labefactata Republica uni vix angulo imper-


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ant.” Ibid., 184r: “Rem signo demonstrat, libertatem reddere bellicosiores homines: quod con‹rmat Iulius Caesar de Germanis loquens, qui (ut inquit) fruebantur omni libertate, nec a pueritia instituebantur honestis disciplinis aut arti‹ciis, sed quisque faciebat quod volebat. . . . Curiosa quod aedi‹cia non permittebantur erigere, neque sectari auri sacram famem, unde dissidia et factiones inter cives oboriuntur: sed erant ex aequo divites et pauperes, servi et domini, id quod tandiu simul continuit antequam a Romanis superati essent. Quum primum vero pecuniae amor eorum pectora occupavit, de illis actum fuit, quemadmodum Herodianus scribit Germanos sub Caesare Alexandro pecunia corruptos pacem cum hostibus inisse.” The citation of the third-century historian Herodian is an allusion to his claim that Severus had paid off the Germans in order to avoid ‹ghting them. 140. Cardano, AAL, lectio 78 (in Cardano 1663, 8:148): “Intelligit ergo de regia tantum aut tyrannica potestate”; lectio 80 (in Cardano 1663, 8:151): “Nonne sub Homero, tota Graecia sub regibus erat? Sane sed non Hippocratis aetate.” 141. Cardano, AAL, lectio 79, in Cardano 1663, 8:149. 142. Settala 1590, 380. 143. Settala 1590, 394. 144. Baldini 1586, 205–6: “Sed huic sententiae Hyppocratis multa repugnare videntur, nam Persae sub Cyro rege bellicosissimi fuere, Aegyptii sub Sesostre, Macedones sub Philippo Amintae et sub Alexandro. Romani quoque sub regibus strenui ac bellatores fuere, Galli sub Brenno eorum regem Romam coepere, Unni, Gothi, et Longobardi qui totam Italiam devastarunt ac sibi subiecerunt sub regibus vixere, attamen bellicosi, fortes et strenui fuerunt. An hi populi omnes et si sub regibus vixerint, consilia, magistratus et collegia habebant, adeo ut ipsorum regimen reipublicae potius quam regni vel principatus speciem praeseferret, praedaeque spe et quietis ducebantur quae inter milites dividebantur, agros, villas domosque incolarum regionum quas vincebant loco praemii laborum suorum accipiebant, ubi deinde quietam vitam degebant, at Hyppocrates in hoc loco de his regibus ac populis non loquitur, sed de iis qui vulgo reges appellantur quibus cuncta redduntur, populi vero qui ipsis parent nullum honorem vel utile in regno habent, et cum in militiam pro‹ciscuntur praemium nullum sperant, ut multi reges et populi huius generis tempore Hyppocratis in Asia erant, hos itaque populos timidos et imbelles necessario esse Hyppocrates dicit.” 145. Settala 1590, 432–37. At 437: “quoniam quamvis inter se de principatu, et ‹nibus certarent, pro libertate tamen in unum conspirabant adversus tyrannos, non secus, quam nostro tempore Helvetii consentiunt inter se.” 146. A comparison with some of the political undercurrents recently identi‹ed in the writings of academicians in Spanish Lombardy may be relevant; see Pissavino 1993. 147. Settala 1590, 504: “Dixit autem ut plurimum, quod multa sunt quae ex accidente aliquando oppositum inserunt; quales sunt leges universales, aut civiles, consuetudines, penuria, et alia quamplurima, quorum si in unum concurrant, plura, aut omnia, facile, quae naturalia erunt alicui regioni, et hominibus eiusdem provinciae, immutare poterunt. Quod vel in nostris Mediolanensibus conspici potest; qui cum liberi erant, in bellis fortissimi habebantur: cum sub Longobardis, mediocriter etiam in bellica re valebant: cum sub Exarchis Graecorum Imperatorum, tanquam mancipia, omnino erant imbelles: cum sub tutela Germanorum Imperatorum, Germanicam omnino naturam referebant. Sub Gallis duriore servitute pressi quasi languescebant.

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Sub Hispanis iam constituti, eorundem mores aliqua ex parte referunt. Quod si Regum imperium, et leges, adeo variasse mores videmus, verisimile est, si alia adiungantur, etiam ‹guras aliquo modo immutari ab eo, quod regionis naturam producit. Sed hoc rarum est, quod plura esse debent simul iuncta, et eiusdem naturae; ut quod a regione tanquam naturale est, immutari possit.” 148. Settala 1590, 5. 149. Mercuriale, De peste in universum, praesertim vero de Veneta et Patavina, proem, in Mercuriale 1618: “Ut hoc tempore de pestilentia tractarem, multa me impulerunt. Illud primum fuit, quod, cum Dei Opt. misericordia factum sit, ut haec mala sint magnopere imminuta. . . . Alterum fuit quod anno praeterito librum secundum Epidemiorum Hippocratis interpretari coepimus, quem cum prosequi non licuerit, atque de pestilenti febri ordinarie tractare non sit concessum, iacturam illam videbimur resarcire, si nunc etiam de febre pestilenti tractabimus. Postremum et illud fuit, quod maximus quidam terror omnium animos invasit, fore, ut haec mala denuo revertantur: propter quod consultum, et optatum omnibus erit si, quomodo haec immanissima fera sit evitanda, diligentissime docebo.” 150. Mercuriale, De peste, 2, in Mercuriale 1618. 151. Zacchi’s dedicatory letter is dated March 1577; the ‹rst edition is Mercuriale 1577. 152. On the epidemic and Mercuriale’s role, see Rodenwaldt 1953, especially 86–110, 180–205; Preto 1978, especially 48–50, 68, 127–28. Palmer 1978, chapter 9, provides a detailed analysis of archival documents regarding debates at Venice and Mercuriale’s pronouncements and activities there. On Mercuriale’s treatise, see Nutton 2006. 153. Mercuriale, De peste, chapter 4, “De‹nitur pestis: et ostenditur, Venetam, et Patavinam fuisse veram pestem,” 6–7, 14, in Mercuriale 1618. As Rodenwaldt 1953, 108, and Palmer 1978, 238–39, note, Mercuriale’s understanding of plague (pestis) assumed that the term necessarily referred to a widepread epidemic hence just a few cases could not, in this view, constitute plague. 154. Mercuriale, De peste, chapter 19, “Rationibus et exemplis ostenditur, sperandum esse, Venetam et Patavinam pestem omnino extinctam esse, nec amplius renascituram,” 35–37, in Mercuriale 1618. 155. Agasse 2002–3 edits an inventory of Mercuriale’s books compiled at the time he left Padua for Bologna. 156. Mercuriale, De peste, chapter 12, “De natura contagii: ubi, quid sit, quod corpus communicet, cui, et per quae diligenter examinatur,” 17–20, in Mercuriale 1618. Ibid., 20: “Hieronymus Fracastorius, vir tempestate nostra omni laude dignissimus, et qui primus aperuit hominum oculos ad intelligendum contagium.” At 25: “Diximus ‹eri contagium et propter immediatum contactum, et propter fomitem, et per medium aerem. In hac nostra peste tribus hisce modis contagium hanc stragem effecit. . . . Non est igitur, ut dixi, dubium, quin hoc contagium contactu multa mala fecerit. Non est etiam dubitandum, quin fomes multum contulerit ad cladem hanc ef‹ciendam. . . . Sed ut ego existimo, maxime omnium operatum est contagium per medium aerem.” 157. Mercuriale, De peste, chapter 6, “Pestem Venetam, et Patavinam ortum habuisse ex aere,” 8–10; chapter 7, “Quod fuerit vitium in aere: et quomodo aer dicatur vitiatus, et inducere pestem,” 10–12; chapter 9, “Quae qualitaties aeris fuerint hoc tem-


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pore causa pestis,” 14–16—all in Mercuriale 1618. Nutton 1990b, 230–33, calls attention to the acceptance of multiple causes or levels of causes of disease. 158. Mercuriale, De peste, 4–5, in Mercuriale 1618. 159. Mercuriale, De peste, 9–11, in Mercuriale 1618. 160. Mercuriale, De peste, 13, in Mercuriale 1618: “Praeterea sunt historiae, quae nobis summae rationis loco esse debent.” 161. Mercuriale, De peste, 16–17, in Mercuriale 1618. The epidemic at the time of Camillus is mentioned in Plutarch’s life of Camillus, though Mercuriale did not name this source. 162. Mercuriale, De peste, 25, 29, in Mercuriale 1618. 163. Mercuriale, De peste, 31, in Mercuriale 1618: “Ita, si percurratis historias, videbitis semper populum invenisse aliquam occasionem humanam.” 164. Mercuriale, De peste, 36–37, in Mercuriale 1618.

chapter 3 1. Joubert 1599a, 1:154: “In docendo facetus maxime fuit, et historiis vel fabulis citatis auditores retinuit, omnium vero maxime doceret.” 2. Girolamo Cardano, De vita propria liber, in Cardano 1663, 1:1–54; an English translation of De vita propria is in Cardano 2002. 3. I make no attempt to provide full bibliography of the scholarship on the development of biographical and autobiographical writing in Renaissance and early modern western Europe, a topic that frequently intersects with discussion on the question of individualism in the same period. Useful studies include the following: Buck 1983; Cochrane 1981a, 393–422; Mayer and Woolf 1995b; Schulze 1996; Schweikhart 1998; Greyerz et al. 2001. Mayer and Woolf (1995a) suggest the term “life-writing,” given the many forms taken by biographical writing in the period and their differences from modern biography. 4. On biographical writing in the ancient world, see Momigliano 1971; Gentili and Cerri 1988; Sonnabend 2002; Misch 1949–69, vol. 1. See also Edwards and Swain 1997. 5. A substantial body of life writing was produced in the Middle Ages, but it was largely devoted to rulers and ecclesiastical or religious ‹gures (in addition to formative traditions of hagiography, late ancient and medieval Christian culture yielded famous examples of spiritual autobiography). See Berschin 1999, 579–622, for a bibliography of biographical (including, predominantly, hagiographical) writings produced between 900 and 1200. Little was known of the authentic works of Plutarch in the Latin West before the late fourteenth century, but in the ‹fteenth century, some of Plutarch’s lives were translated into Latin by Bruni and other humanists; see Berschin 1983. The editio princeps of the Greek text of Plutarch’s Parallel Lives was published in Florence in 1517, followed by an Aldine edition in 1519. Jacques Amyot’s in›uential French translation appeared in 1559. On the fortuna of the Characteres of Theophrastus, ‹rst translated into Latin by Lapo da Castiglioncho in the 1430s, with the ‹rst edition of the Greek text published in 1527, see Schmitt 1960, especially 239–65. 6. Ambrogio Traversari translated Diogenes Laertius into Latin in 1433 (Copenhaver 1988, 80); this translation was printed several times in the later ‹fteenth century;

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the Greek text was ‹rst printed in 1533. On knowledge of lives of ancient philosophers in the Middle Ages, see Piaia 1983; Celenza 2005, 485–88; Taylor 1992. On Pseudo-Burley, De vita et moribus philosophorum, and its sources, see Grignaschi 1990. A Latin translation of Diogenes Laertius begun by Henricus Aristippus in the twelfth century is lost and may not have been completed; see Alverny 1982, 430. 7. On the ancient distinction between biography and history, see Momigliano 1971, 1–7 and passim. Gentili and Cerri 1988, 61–85, especially 61–62, somewhat modify Momigliano’s distinction. On Renaissance developments, see Ijsewijn 1983, 4 (contrasting the distinction between biography and history made by Plutarch and Cornelius Nepos with Patrizi’s acceptance of biography as a part of history); Zimmerman 1995b, 39–43. In one of the few treatises speci‹cally devoted to life writing, Dello scrivere le vite by Torquato Malaspina (1557–94), the author proclaimed: “Essendo adunque le vite una spezie d’historia” (Malaspina 1991, 43). But Cochrane 1981a, 415, notes examples of Renaissance authors who considered biography to be distinct from history. See also Hähner 1999, 35–55. Bacon 2002, book 2, 179–80, quoted from another version in Mayer and Woolf 1995a, 1. 8. Morhof 1732 (‹rst published 1688), 1.19, “De vitarum scriptoribus,” p. 215: “Praecipuam historiae literariae partem vitarum scriptores constituunt. . . . Prout enim incidimus in vitam vel philosophi, vel jurisconsulti, vel medici, vel politici; ita multa discimus, quae ad scientias illas spectant. . . . Ex illis arcana quaedam colligi possunt, quae non scientiam tantum, sed et prudentiam hominis literati augent.” 9. Momigliano 1985, 13: “biogra‹a e medicina furono [in antiquity] le sole scienze empiriche a seguire un uomo ‹no alla morte.” 10. Garzoni also wrote some secular biographies, including that of the father of his patron and patient Giovanni Bentivoglio, despot of Bologna, and several historical works. On Garzoni and his contribution to humanistic hagiography, see Frazier 2005; his extensive correspondence, which is much more concerned with humanistic and historical than with medical themes, is edited in Garzoni 1992, with a bibliography of his writings at 576–79 (for revision of the traditional birthdate of 1419, see Frazier 2005, 170). On the transformation of hagiography, in the ‹fteenth century by humanistic tastes and in the sixteenth (in the Catholic world) by new standards of evidence, see E. Rice 1985; Ditch‹eld 1995, 1996. 11. See Nutton 1988a; Cardano, De propria vita liber, proem, in Cardano 1663, 1:1; Erasmus 1989. 12. Piccolomini [Pius II] 1984; Ianziti 1992; Fubini and Menci Gallorini 1972; Watkins 1989; Grafton 2000b, 14–27 (pointing out Alberti’s reliance on an ancient model); Maclean 2001. 13. Of just over two hundred “artisan autobiographies” written between the sixteenth and the eighteenth centuries listed in Amelang 1998, 258–350, nine are by men and women who worked as a surgeon, midwife, healer, or apothecary. The last of these, the journal of Luca Landucci, seems also to belong to the category of personal writing by merchants, otherwise excluded from Amelang’s study. On sixteenth-century medical autobiography, with special reference to Cardano, Felix Platter, and Paré, see also Kümmel 1983. 14. The most recent edition of the complete work is Platter 1976; the section on Platter’s student days is translated into English in Platter 1961. For Felix Platter’s record


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of his practice and account of a plague epidemic, see Platter 1976, 427–50. The younger Thomas Platter’s journal is edited by Rut Keiser in Thomas Platter, Beschreibung der Reisen durch Frankreich, Spanien, England und die Niederlande 1595–1600 (Basel and Stuttgart: Schwabe, 1968), which I have not seen, and partially translated (from an older edition) in Razzell 1995, 1–106. 15. Paré 1641. The Apologie et Traicté contenant les voyages faicts en divers lieux was ‹rst printed in the 1585 edition of Paré’s works; a seventeenth-century English translation is in Paré 1968. 16. On Renaissance and early modern medical education as a form of professional socialization, see Frijhoff 1996a. 17. Savonarola 1902, chapter 3, “De viris illustris non sacris,” pp. 36–41. Savonarola’s work was written in 1446–47. Giovio’s Elogia virorum literis illustrium, ‹rst published in 1546, includes thirty elogia for individuals associated with medicine, natural philosophy, and natural magic, the great majority of whom were physicians: see Giovio 1972; Minonzio 2002. P. Freher 1688, with medical lives occupying 1207–1418. I am grateful to Thomas Rütten for drawing my attention to this work. On Freher, see NDB 5:392. 18. See Popper 2005. As Popper shows (352–54), Harvey (1550–1630) read the collections of lives by the ancient authors Philostratus, Diogenes Laertius, and Eunapius and the modern Paolo Giovio with equal enthusiasm and compared their work with the collection of genitures by Luca Gaurico. 19. Cochrane 1981a, 393–411; Simon de Phares (d. ca. 1495) 1997 (astrologers); Sambucus 1574 (regarding this author and work, see chapter 6 in the present volume); Cellius 1596 (Tübingen professors); Meurs 1613 (Leiden professors; an expanded version of this work appeared as book 2 of Meurs 1625); Adam 1705 (German theologians, jurists, statesmen, physicians, and philosophers; medical section ‹rst published 1620). Vasari’s collection of lives of artists was ‹rst published in 1550. 20. Siraisi 1987b. 21. Facio 1992 (facsimile of 1745 edition), 35: “Quid ingeniosius, quam corporis nostri compositionem, structuram, ordinem, tum ipsas aegritudinum causas ratione comprehendere? Quid porro decentius, quam quibus remediis tam varia, tamque diversa morborum genera curentur, agnoscere?” 22. See Clough 1993; Pelc 2002 (which contains a catalog of 173 such books published between 1497 and 1620, including several of those listed in note 19 to the present chapter); Haskell 1993, 26–59. On the relation of biography and portraiture in the period more generally, see also Enenkel, de Jong-Crane, and Liebregts 1998 and, although mostly referring to the later seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, Wendorf 1990. 23. Imperiali 1640; see Dionisotti 1981, 491–92. 24. The Elogia (‹rst published in 1546) initially appeared without illustrations, which were added only in editions of 1575 (military and political ‹gures) and 1577 (men of letters); see Zimmerman 1995a, 207–8, 224; Pelc 2002, 56 and catalog nos. 72 and 73. 25. Giovio 1972, 8:74 (Ficino), 84 (Achillini), 88 (Linacre), 95 (Leoniceno). 26. See Reusner 1587 (Pelc 2002, no. 128), )( iiiv–)( xiiiir, for the acknowledgment of Giovio and Beza. The physicians included by Reusner are Henricus Cornelius Agrippa, Paracelsus, Ioachim Vadianus, Wolfgang Lazius (described as “historicus”), Janus Cornarius, Jacob Milich, Vesalius, Johann Lange, Konrad Gessner (“philosophus

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et medicus”), Guglielmo Gratarolo, Leonhart Fuchs, Gilbertus Limbergius, Johann Guinter of Andernach, Johannes Sambucus (“medicus et historicus”), and Johann Crato von Krafftheim. Boissard 1597–99. Subsequent, enlarged editions appeared under the titles Bibliotheca seu thesaurus virtutis et gloriae (5 vols., Frankfurt, 1628–32), Icones et ef‹gies virorum doctorum (6 parts in 2 vols., Frankfurt, 1645), VI[–IX] pars Bibliothecae chalcographicae (4 parts in 2 vols., Frankfurt, 1650–54), and Bibliotheca chalcographica (5 vols. in 1, Frankfurt, 1669). 27. Thevet 1973 (facsimile of 1584 edition) 6.107, 2:542r–544v (Agrippa); 6.116, 2:567r–568v (Fernel); 2.28, 1:57r–58v (Hippocrates); 2.43, 2:92r–v (Dioscorides); 7.134, 2:620r–622r (Avicenna). Thevet’s is one of only two contemporary lives of Fernel and was the ‹rst published, though Plancy’s was written earlier (Sherrington 1946, 148). 28. Cellius’s earlier collection of versi‹ed lives and portraits of Tübingen professors (Cellius 1596; Pelc 2002, no. 28) is also divided into disciplinary categories. Later collections that made use of disciplinary divisions include Bullart 1682—in which volume 2, book 2, is devoted to “illustres philosophes, mathematiciens, astrologues et medecins” (fourteen of the twenty-nine ‹gures covered are physicians, ranging chronologically from Arnald of Villanova to Lodovico Settala)—and C. Patin 1682 (categorizing professors of theology, philosophy, and medicine at Padua, the author being among the last group). 29. Melchior Adam, Vitae germanorum medicorum, separately paginated and with separate title page in Adam 1705. The total number of medical lives is 129, but the subjects of the ‹rst four biographies lived before 1500. On Adam (d. 1622) and his biographical collections, see Schaeffer 1987; ADB 1:45–46; NDB 1:53; J. Weiss 1992. 30. J. Weiss 1992, 343. Adam, Vitae germanorum medicorum, 12–17 (Paracelsus), 57–59 (Vesalius), in Adam 1705. 31. Space does not permit a full listing here, but see Adam, Vitae germanorum medicorum, 32–33 (Gemma Frisius, cosmography), 84–85 (Goropius, antiquities, philology), 49–40 (misprint for 52) (Petrus Lotichius Secundus, poetry), 60–61 (Wolfgang Lazius, genealogy and antiquities), 101–94 (misprint for 102) (Hadrianus Junius, history, emblems), 146–72 (Gessner, bibliography—also a historical enterprise—and natural history), in Adam 1705. On Goropius and Junius, see chapter 1 in the present volume; on Lazius, see chapter 6. 32. Champier [1506?]; Brunfels 1530. I make no attempt here to trace the history of later sixteenth-century medical bibliographies as such, although such works frequently also included brief accounts of the authors discussed, just as lives of physicians usually included a list of the subject’s writings. Eobanus of Hesse 1571 (containing one of two recensions of the Chorus illustrium medicorum made by Eobanus [1488–1540]); Castellanus [Casteele] 1618. Sambucus 1574; for further discussion, see chapter 6 in the present volume. 33. Gentile da Foligno 1978; another sermo of Gentile’s is edited in Agrimi and Crisciani 1988, 258–61. For other early examples of secular orations in the universities, see Lewry 1982; Bertalot 1936; Piana 1966, 8–82 (discussing mostly sermones on the occasion of graduations in law and a few in arts and medicine). I am grateful to Chiara Crisciani for the last two references. On secular sermons in a variety of contexts, see also the accounts of the preaching of Robert of Naples in Kelly 2003 and Pryds 2000. For fuller discussion, see Siraisi 2004.


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34. J. O’Malley 1979; McManamon 1976, 1989 (with a bibliography of humanist funeral orations, including some for physicians), 1996. I make no attempt to supply a full bibliography of Renaissance rhetoric: see, for example, Kristeller 1979b; Murphy 1983; Monfasani 1988. Müllner 1970 includes numerous examples of humanist orations on subjects other than medicine. 35. McManamon 1996, 31–49, 170–73. 36. Jacopo da Forlì, Medicina artium preclarissima, edited in Agrimi and Crisciani 1988, 263–73. 37. See Pesenti 1984, 42–44, 133–37. 38. Matteolo da Perugia 1939. I am grateful to Chiara Crisciani for this reference. 39. Agrimi and Crisciani 1988, passim; on the concept of medicine as a divine gift, see Crisciani 1990. 40. Momigliano 1985, 13–14, notes that ancient writers on rhetoric did not take medicine as part of their province as they did history, despite the evident presence of rhetorical elements in medical writing. On medicine and rhetoric in the Hellenistic period and the Renaissance, see Von Staden 1997, 1998; Nutton 1995; Papy 2000. 41. See Maclean 2002, 96, 104, for examples of Renaissance condemnations of rhetoric as an adjunct to therapy. For one explicit statement that rhetoric is useful for medicine because it helps the patient have con‹dence in his physician and that Galen himself frequently used rhetoric, see Pietro d’Abano 1565, differentia 1, 3v. However, Pietro thought rhetoric was considerably less important for medicine than were logic, astrology, and natural philosophy. 42. Melanchthon 1843–44, 11:191–210, 495–509, 555–60; 806–11, 826–32, 924–54; 12:28–33, 113–19, 207–13, 271–77, 317–24, 360–65. The orations relating to medicine are no. 23, Laus artis medicinae; no. 24, Encomium medicinae; no. 25, Contra empiricos medicos; no. 63, De vita Galeni; no. 64, De Hippocrate; no. 69, De physica; no. 101, De dignitate artis medicae; no. 104, De vita Avicennae; no. 118, De sympathia et antipathia; no. 119, De doctrina physica; no. 120, De doctrina anatomiae; no. 121, De partibus et motibus cordis; no. 135, De anatomia; no. 146, De arte medica; no. 158, De pulmone et de discrimine arteriae; no. 165, De aphorismo VIto partis II; no. 170, De consideratione corporis humani seu de anatomica doctrina; and no. 176, Explicatio Aphorismi XLII. For studies, see Rütten and Rütten 1998; Eckhart 1998; Koch 1998; Scheible 1996. On Melanchthon’s scienti‹c and medical interests, see Nutton 1993b; Kusukawa 1993, 1995. 43. Melanchthon’s biographer Camerarius noted his practice of writing orations for others to deliver; see Camerarius 1777, 63. For Melanchthon’s own in›uence on rhetorical manuals, see Meerhoff 1994. 44. For example, Milich 1550 contains two orations also published in Melanchthon’s works. 45. For example, Matthaeus Zeizius, Oratio. De physicis causis et periodis pestilentium morborum publice recitatea in Academia Francofordiana Marchionum (n.p., 1595); Johann Mathesius, Oratio, de admirabili auditus instrumenti fabrica et structura (Wittenberg, 1577); Salomon Alberti, Oratio de surditate et mutitate (Nuremberg, 1591). I cite these titles from the online catalog of the National Library of Medicine. 46. For example, Erastus 1590, De medicinae laudibus oratio. 47. Vergil 2002, 1.20–21, pp. 154–69. On this work, which ‹rst appeared in 1499 and went through numerous sixteenth-century editions, see the editor’s introduction and

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Copenhaver 1978a. Another encyclopedic work with especially extensive treatment of medicine was Giorgio Valla’s De expetendis et fugiendis rebus, published in 1501, with seven internal books on medicine; see Ruffo 1981. Valla was also the author of De inventa medicina et in quot partes distributa sit. (Valla n.d.), a brief summary of mythical origin stories about medicine together with accounts of the achievements of early physicians in the form of a prologue to the medieval medical compendium known as the Isagoge of Johannitius. 48. Dryander 1537. On the theme of repugnance toward anatomy in this oration, see Carlino 1999, 222–24. 49. Bartolotti 1954: the Latin text of Bartolotti’s oration, or lecture, subsequently worked up into a treatise divided into chapters, occupies 23–66 (with English translation at 93–142), with date and occasion at 66 and 142. Naudé 1628. On the formal organization of Renaissance and early modern universities, see Grendler 2002; RidderSymoens 1996; Clark 2006. 50. Le Vieil [Johannes Vetus] 1560. Le Vieil’s other publications suggest that he also functioned as a minor publicist in the Guise interest. See Cioranescu 1959, 682. 51. Le Vieil 1560, Nestor, 83–87. The combination of introductory general orations with one for each graduand may have been standard at Paris graduation ceremonies, if one may judge by the similar format of Theodoricus Morellus [Thierry Morel], Tredecim orationes encomiasticae habitae Parisiis, Annno MDXXIII (Paris: Apud Nicolaum Savetier, 1528), which I have not seen and cite from the online catalog of the Wellcome Library. 52. Le Vieil 1560, Oratio prima, 13–32. 53. Christoph Schilling, letter to Johannes Crato von Krafftheim, Andreas Dudith, and Thomas Erastus, preceding Joubert’s oration in Joubert 1599b, 190–91. A few years earlier, the Fuggers had ‹nanced a similar trip for another young German physician, Lorenz Gryll; see Gryll 1566, 5–6. 54. Joubert 1599b. 55. Joubert 1599b,194. 56. Lenz 1990; Kolb 1995. The series Marburger Personalschriften-Forschungen, many volumes of which consist of bibliographies of early modern printed Leichenpredigten in various German libraries and archives, had by 2006 reached volume 42 (on this series, see http://www.uni-marburg.de/fpmr). See Winkler 1967 on the development of funeral preaching in the Lutheran Church and its antecedents and (at 231–37) on sixteenth- and seventeenth-century critiques of the genre. Some Catholic funeral sermons were also printed, though in much smaller numbers; see Boge and Bogner 1999. 57. Lenz 1981, especially the table at 244. 58. Hizler 1566. The volume, which includes commemorative poems and other material as well as Hizler’s oration, is seventy-two pages long in quarto. It is reprinted in Leonhart Fuchs, Operum . . . tomus primus [tertius] (Frankfurt, 1566–67), vol. 1, and is available in English translation in the edition of Fuchs’s Great Herbal by Frederick G. Meyer et al. (Hizler 1999). Schmidt-Grave 1974, 41–42, notes that Hizler’s was only the second Tübingen oration to be printed and suggests the date 1537 for the academic statute prescribing funeral orations for professors. 59. The phrase quoted is in Hizler 1999, 266. 60. Schmidt-Grave 1974, 40–82; see also note 19 to the present chapter. 61. Vorst 1611. The date and occasion of original delivery is given at page 18. On


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Clusius, see P. Jovet and J. C. Mallet, “L’Ecluse (Clusius), Charles de,” DSB 8:120–21; on Clusius at Leiden University, Smit 1973. 62. Vorst 1611, 7–10, 14. 63. Vorst 1611, 7–8: “Neque, quod multi peregrinantes hodie faciunt, perfunctorie aut veluti canis Nilum lambit, exteras regiones obibat, verum pensiculate minutissima etiam quaequae animadvertebat; nec solum rerum naturalium ibi nascentium indagatione contentus, quicquid praeterea ad situm, antiquitates et popularum mores spectaret, mente et oculis attentissimis observabat.” 64. Galen’s De sectis was translated by Burgundio of Pisa around 1185; in addition, a commentary by Johannes Alexandrinus (seventh century CE) existed in several manuscripts. See G. D. Pritchet’s introduction to Johannes Alexandrinus 1982, vii–viii. On the rarity of medieval manuscripts of Celsus’s De medicina and on new interest in the work in the ‹fteenth century, see Reynolds and Wilson, 1991, 107, 145. 65. Pietro d’Abano 1565, differentia 1, 3r, on the three medical sects; differentia 3, 6r: “Hippocrates fuit medicinae inventor.” On Pietro as reader of Celsus, see Jacquart 1994 and note 22 to the Introduction of this volume. 66. Vergil 2002, 1.20–21. 67. Bartolotti 1954, 23, 25 68. Bartolotti 1954, 52, 61, quoted in Schullian and Belloni’s translation from the same volume (126, 137). 69. Bartolotti 1954, 60, quoted in Schullian and Belloni’s translation (136). 70. Regarding Renaissance views of Hippocrates derived from the Hippocratic pseudepigraphia, see chapter 2 and bibliography cited in notes 56 and 58–60 thereto. On biographical accounts of Galen, see Nutton 1998; for medieval legends about him, Nutton 2001, 29–32. 71. Champier [1517], ir–viiiv (on Champier, see further the preface to part 2 of the present volume); Fumanelli 1557, 2r–[4r]; Brunfels 1530, 55–62; A. Werner 1570. 72. See Siraisi 1987a, 161–64. 73. S. Benzi 1951. Various editions of Ugo Benzi’s works were printed in the late ‹fteenth and early sixteenth centuries, but according to Lockwood 1951, 15, none included Sozzino’s Vita. 74. On the publication of Plancy’s life of Fernel, see Sherrington 1946, 147–49. Plancy is thought to have died perhaps in 1568 and known to have done so before 1574. In what follows I cite from Plancy 1645, *3r–**4v; an English translation is in Sherrington 1946, 150–70. 75. The ‹rst edition is Laurent Joubert, Operum Latinorum tomus primus: Hic omnia complectitur, quae hactenus fuerunt sigillatim publicata: nunc recens ab autore ipso repurgata, & plurimu[m] aucta . . . Cui subjectus est tomus secundus, nunc denuo in lucem proditus (Lyon: Apud Stephanum Michaelem, 1582). In the present chapter, I cite from the third edition of Joubert’s Latin Opera (Joubert 1599a), in which Gulielmi Rondeletii vita, mors, et epitaphia, cum catalogo scriptorum ab eo relictorum, quae D. Iouberti manus pervenerunt occupies 1:150–74, with the vita itself at pages 150–56. The date of composition of the vita appears on page 150. On Rondelet (1507–66), see A. G. Keller, “Rondelet, Guillaume,” DSB 11:527–28, which notes that Joubert’s vita is still the fundamental source for Rondelet’s biography. 76. On Joubert (1529–82), see Dulieu 1969; the translator’s introduction to Joubert 1989; Reeds 1991, chapter 2, especially 74–78.

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77. Sherrington 1946, 147–48; Plancy 1645, **2r (trans. Sherrington 1946, 165). 78. The ‹rst edition of Fernel’s Medicina appeared in Paris in 1554; the enlarged Universa medicina (Paris, 1567) was reissued in a number of later sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century editions. Fernel’s ideas on spiritus and occult causes are most fully explored in De abditis rerum causis libri II (Paris, 1548), reprinted in editions of Universa medicina. For a list of editions of Fernel’s works, see Sherrington 1946, to which should now be added Fernel 2003. I make no attempt to supply a comprehensive bibliography of secondary literature on Fernel, but see Bono 1995; the editors’ introduction to Fernel 2003; Hirai 2005a; Müller-Jahncke 1985, 113–16; Richardson 1985; Roger 1960; Sherrington 1946. 79. Plancy 1645, *3r–v (trans. Sherrington 1946, 150–51). 80. Plancy 1645, **r ,**3v (trans. Sherrington 1946, 162, 168). On attitudes toward secrecy, see Long 2001; Eamon 1994. On changing attitudes toward the inspection of urines, see Nutton 1996; Stolberg 2007. 81. Plancy 1645, *4r–5r, 7r–v (trans. Sherrington 1946, 152–54, 158–60). 82. Plancy 1645, [*8r] (trans. Sherrington 1946, 160–61). 83. Plancy 1645, *5v (trans. Sherrington 1946, 155). Fernel ‹rst published a general work on physiology with the title De naturali parte medicinae (Paris, 1542); revised, enlarged, and retitled Physiologiae libri VII, it was subsequently incorporated as the ‹rst section of Fernel, Medicina (Paris, 1554) and, later, Universa medicina (1567 and many subsequent editions). 84. Plancy 1645, [*6r]–[*7r], [*8v] (trans. Sherrington 1946, 157, 161–62). At [*6r]: “Noverat enim, et saepe praedicabat, frequentem medendi usum magistrorum praecepta superare.” See also Siraisi 2002a, 230–34. For detailed investigation of one example of Fernel’s continuing in›uence on therapy in the early seventeenth century, see Schweikardt 1995. 85. Plancy 1645, **r (trans. Sherrington 1946, 162). 86. Joubert’s Erreures populaires was ‹rst published in 1578 and his Traité du Ris in 1579. Both are available in English translation: see Joubert 1980, 1989. 87. Joubert 1599a, 1:151. 88. Joubert 1599a, 1:152. Rondelet 1554, Libri de piscibus marinis in quibus verae piscium ef‹gies expressae sunt. For some contexts of sixteenth-century natural history, see Perfetti 2000; Ogilvie 2006. 89. Joubert 1599a, 1:151–52, 154. 90. Joubert 1599a, 1:154. Joubert also noted that Rondelet taught surgeons and apothecaries (pharmacopoei) as well as medical students. On Rondelet’s teaching, see also Reeds 1991, 63–66. 91. Joubert 1599a, 1:152, 156. 92. Joubert 1599a, 1:154–55. 93. Joubert 1599a, 1:152 (Rondelet’s reminiscences of his encounter with a Roman courtesan); 154 (“non parum mulieribus addictus” and the other characteristics mentioned); 155 (friends at Montpellier). 94. Joubert 1599a, 1:152 (the marriage negotiations), 155 (the comment on Rondelet’s changes of attitude). Rondelet’s commitment of his writings to Joubert is described in Gulielmi Rondeletii funestus morbus et mors, in Joubert 1599a, 1:159. 95. Joubert 1599a, 1:153, 154.


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96. Gulielmi Rondeletii funestus morbus et mors, in Joubert 1599a, 1:157–62. 97. See J. Rice 1939, 9–46. Naudé’s medical quaestiones, originally published as separate items in the 1630s, include Naudé 1995, a controversy (actually more philosophical than medical) with the Dutch physician Jan Beverwyck over whether the time of death is determined. All were collected as Gabriel Naudé, Pentas quaestionum iatro-philologicarum. I. An magnum homini a venenis periculum? II. An vita hominum hodie quam olim brevior? III. An matutina studia vespertinis salubriora? IV. An liceat medico fallere aegrotum? V. De fato & fatali vitae termino (Geneva: Apud Samuelem Chouët, 1647), which I have not seen and cite from the online catalog of the National Library of Medicine. Kristeller 1979a, 61–68, provides a list of works edited by or including prefaces or letters to the author by Naudé. The medical works are Jean Riolan (the elder), In artem parvam Galeni Commentarius. Ex bibliotheca G. Naudaei (Paris: Dionysius Langlaeus, 1631) with preface by Naudé; Baldo Baldi, Disquisitio iatrophysica ad textum 23, libri Hippocratis De aere, aquis, et locis (Rome, 1637) with letter of Naudé to the author; Barthélemy Pardoux, In Jacobi Sylvii anatomen et in lib. Hippocratis De natura humana commentarii nunc primum prodeunt ex bibliotheca Gabrielis Naudaei (Paris: Apud Herveum du Mesnil & Olivarium de Varennes, 1643); and Zacchia, (1651) with letter of Naudé to the author. I have not seen the editions of Riolan and Pardoux in question and cite them from the online catalog of the National Library of Medicine. On Naudé’s medical contacts and interests, see also L. Bianchi 1996, 70–74; Schino 1989, 20–23. 98. I make no attempt to list the extensive literature on Naudé as a ‹gure in the seventeenth-century republic of letters, but in addition to the works cited in the previous note, mention should at least be made of Pintard 1983 (‹rst published 1943), 156–78, 206–14, 245–70, 304–11, 442–76 (some of Pintard’s conclusions about irreligion in Naudé’s intellectual circle have been modi‹ed by more recent scholarship); Clarke 1970; Schino 1989, 1992; Cochetti 1989; Nelles 1997; Robert Damien and Yves-Charles Zarka, eds., “Gabriel Naudé: La politique et les mythes de l’histoire de France,” special issue, Corpus: Revue de philosophie, no. 35 (1999). 99. Naudé 1628, 13: “fateor equidem doctissimum vestrum collegam D. Renatum Moreau, qui tam solerter scholae Salernitanae memoriam velut e densissimis tenebris gemmam in apertum protulit, qui celeberrimos vestrae scholae doctores Brissotum, et Sylvium velut augustiori pompa denuo renascentes, vobis, eorumque vitam, et mores omnibus restituit, qui subtilissimam et elaboratissimam totius Medicinae Historiam ingeniose meditatur.” 100. Moreau 1625, 4: “Deinde vero cum egregium codicem manuscriptum haberem in Bibliotheca qui longe plures versus quam evulgatus codex contineret, multa ex eo supplevi et emendavi, necnon ex aliis manuscriptis duobus voluminibus, quorum alterum Roberti Tullou Doctoris Medici Parisiensis exercitatissimi mihique amicissimi, alterum quondam Budaei iam vero Naudini est adolescentis doctissimi, et in lectione bonorum auctorum versatissimi.” 101. Moreau 1625, 5–7: “Nullus medicorum est, ne quidem initiatorum et neophytorum qui carmina Scholae salernitane ore non circunferat, et omni occasione non crepet: hactenus tamen nemo est, qui eius nobis incunabula tradiderit, et quo tempore tam egregium opus compositum et editum exposuerit. . . . fuit ea sors et calamitas omnium artium, atque inter caeteras medicinae cuius illustrationi e historiae nullus ad hunc diem incubuit. . . . Quid narremus de priscis academiarum legibus et constitu-

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tionibus Coae, Cnidiae, Alexandrinae vix habemus. Extiterunt superioribus saeculis et aetate nostra plurimi qui Academiarum Medicorumque historias texuerunt, sed tam infoelici genio et successu ut trita et vulgaria longo verborum apparatu descripserint, dif‹cilia quaeque et illustria non nisi lambendo, velut canis e Nilo, attigerint.” 102. Moreau 1625, 7–30. 103. Moreau 1622. Moreau’s life of Sylvius (Jacques Dubois, 1478–1555), which I have not seen, seems ‹rst to have been published with Jacques Dubois, Opera medica, jam demum in sex partes digesta, castigata & indicibus necessariis instructa. Adjuncta est ejusdem vita et icon. Opera et studio Renati Moraei (Geneva: Apud Jacobum Chouët, 1634). 104. G. Patin 1907, 1:3–5, “lettre 1,” dated April 20, 1630, “à Monsieur Belin, docteur en médecine, à Troyes, en Champagne.” At 3: “depuis 6 ou 7 ans, je me suis mis à rechercher curieusement des antiquitez de nostre eschole de médecine de Paris.” Patin became dean of the Paris medical faculty (and an opponent of Harvey). 105. Naudé 1627 (facsimile 1963); Naudé 1625 (numerous later editions were printed, with slight variations of title); Naudé 1999 (‹rst published 1630). 106. Nelles 1999, 122. On concepts of universal knowledge, histories of wisdom, and polyhistory, see Schmidt-Biggemann 1983. On the role of ecclesiastical history in developing practices of collection and criticism of historical sources, see Grafton 2001. On histories of the sciences, see Goulding 2006a, 2006b; Popper 2006; Kassell 2006 (with special reference to Naudé and the history of magic). 107. Naudé 1625, chapter 14, pp. 350–99. The accounts of Arnald of Villanova, Pietro d’Abano, and Paracelsus are at 376–99. On the passage on Paracelsus, see also Nelles 1999. 108. See Debus 1977, 1:159–73, for a summary of the Paris controversy. 109. Naudé 1625, chapter 14. At p. 376: “. . . Arnauld de Ville neusve, qui n’a pas esté . . . quelque miserable et vagabond Chymiste come on nous le represente. Car il est vray tout au contraire, qu’il estoit le plus docte Medecin de son temps” (modern scholarship agrees with Naudé, at least to the extent that much of the alchemical corpus once ascribed to Arnald is not now regarded as authentic). At 391–92: “Finalement pource qui est de ce grand Heresiarque en la Philosophie, Medecine et Religion, Theophraste Paracelse, qui est aujour d’huy le Zenith et Soleil levant de tous les Alchymistes, il me semble que ceux qui le veulent delivrer du crime de Magie, sans preiudice toutesfois des autres dont il est accuse, peuvent dire avec beaucoup de raison pour sa defence, que la nouveauté de ses conceptions, la dif‹culté de son style, et l’obscurité d’un grand nombre de mots qui vienne le plus souvent à la rencontre de ceux qui fueillettet [sic] ces livres . . . rendent tellement le lecteur douteux et incertain de ce qu’il veut dire, qu’il ne marche qu’en tastonnant parmy de tels Meandres, et ne sçauroit discerner quand il parle d’une crote ou d’une pilule, d’une pierre ou d’un pain, du Diable ou de la Nature.” For Naudé’s anti-Paracelsian remarks, see, for example, Naudé 1628, 67. On his hostility to alchemy in general, see L. Bianchi 1996, 173–202. For Paracelsus in the ideal library, see Naudé 1627, 33–34, a passage also noted in Nelles 1997, 49. 110. See Naudé 1999, “Avertissement,” 11–13, for the goal of the work. It is divided into eight chapters, of which chapters 3–5 concern Louis’s own education, interests, and patronage and chapters 6 and 7 are respectively devoted to the spread of humanism and the arrival of printing. See also L. Bianchi 1999. 111. Naudé 1999, 82–83. Compare Moreau 1622, 91–95.


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112. Naudé 1999, 95–97, citing Paolo Giovio as a source for Marzio’s life. On Galeotto Marzio and Giovio’s account of him, see Minonzio 2002, 429–45, with copious bibliography. 113. Naudé 1999, 54–56. The letter is said (55–56) to come from “les registres de M. Nicolas Pietre tres-docte et celebre Medecin de ladite Faculté.” 114. Naudé 1999, 64–65. At 64: “le grand desir et affection qu’il avoit au progrez et à l’avancement des sciences[.]” Nutton and Nutton 2003 analyzes the original version and subsequent fortuna of this story, both in the context of the history of medicine and surgery in ‹fteenth-century Paris and in that of the subsequent historiography of medicine. The authors reserve judgment but seem inclined to give some credence to the story in its original form. Naudé’s version quoted the original source, the chronicle of Jean de Roye (also known as the Chronique scandaleuse), although he also mentioned intermediate sources: compare Naudé 1999, 105–5; Nutton and Nutton 2003, 402–3. The story was ‹rst introduced into medical literature by Ambroise Paré and often subsequently misinterpreted as an account of a surgical operation (Nutton and Nutton 2003, 415–27). 115. Naudé 1628. Compare the structure of Jean Le Vieil’s oration in Le Vieil 1560. 116. Naudé 1628, 15–19. 117. Miller 2005, 362–63. 118. Caius 1574 (‹rst edition 1568), 11–13, 33. For late medieval and early modern claims about the antiquity of Oxford and Cambridge, see Cobban 1988, 20–26. 119. Schino 1989. 120. Naudé’s iudicium of Cardano was ‹rst published with Cardano 1643. It was reprinted as part of the front matter of volume 1 of Cardano 1663. On Naudé as editor of Cardano and on the iudicium, see Cerbu 1999; Maclean 1994, 330–33; and L. Bianchi 1996, 48–54. On the nature and limits of Naudé’s attack on occultism, see Copenhaver 1992. 121. Le Clerc 1702 (‹rst edition 1696), characterized as the “‹rst attempt at a history of medicine in the modern sense” in Webster 1983, 31. Diepgen 1938 and Heischkel 1938 remain useful overviews of medieval, Renaissance, and early modern works relating to the history of medicine.

preface to part 2 1. Champier 1508, Aiiiir: “Te vero galli aureum ›umen appellant. Nuper de hystoria corporis humani dulce volumen tuum: . . . vehementer et mirifice delectavit . . . haud dubie nostre sis etatis oratorum omnium ac medicorum princeps.” Benedetti’s letter is found on Aiiiv–Aiiiir; he perhaps had in mind Champier [1506?], a volume that also included some of Benedetti’s own medical aphorisms. On Champier (ca. 1472–ca. 1539), see Copenhaver 1978b; on the extent and limits of his anti-Arabism, ibid., 67–68, 136–47. On medical anti-Arabism in general in the early sixteenth century, see Pormann 2004. On Benedetti (1452–1512), see Ferrari 1996, with reference to the exchange of letters with Champier at 97; Benedetti’s anatomical treatise is edited, with Italian translation, in Benedetti 1998. 2. Zanier 1987, 519. On Champier’s Platonism, see Copenhaver 1978b, 98–102; on Benedetto’s, Ferrari 1996, 138–41. 3. On Champier and Avicenna, see Copenhaver 1978b, 140–45. On Benedetti and Mondino, see the editor’s introduction to Benedetti 1998, 14.

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4. Champier 1537b [Aiiiiv]; Ferrari 1996, 175–250. 5. Benedetti 1967. The work was ‹rst printed by Aldus in Venice in 1496. 6. Benedetti 1967, 52–53. 7. See, for example, Benedetti 1967, 104–5, 108–9, 132–33, 156–57, 164–65, 168–69, 174–75. 8. Editor’s introduction to Benedetti 1967, 5; editor’s introduction to Corio 1978, 1:25. Corio’s work was ‹rst published in 1503. 9. Copenhaver 1978b, 58, 60. 10. For a bibliography of his principal works, see Copenhaver 1978b, 11–27; see also Allut 1859. 11. Champier 1992, 1977, 1537a. At 1537a, Eiiv: “Hunc Carolum Germani et cum illis Aeneas Sylvius imperatoris Alemannici secretarius voluerunt fuisse Germanum et in Germania natum, quem dicunt mensibus et ventis Germanica indidisse vocabula: sed quum haec ‹ctitia sit, futilia et vana, nec aliquo tueri possint digno authore praeterquam Germano aut Germanorum famulo. . . . Carolus enim magnus Gallus fuit et Galli ‹lius et in Gallia natus ac genitus.” On Champier and French and Italian cultural rivalries, see Copenhaver 1978b, 82–83; editor’s introduction to Champier 1977, 8–11. 12. Champier 1992, 3.2, p. 194. Champier 1510 includes a translation of Raymond Lull’s treatise on chivalry. 13. Champier 1537b, Bbiiiv–Cciiv: “Quae potissima lugdunensis seditionis causa fuerit”; Copenhaver 1978b, 62–63. 14. Champier 1516, biiir: “aucuns italiens et siciliens dient et reputent ladicte hystoire de Berose estre fabuleuse pour la grande antiquite. . . . Et a ce que en est dit que Iosephus grant hystoriographe entre les hebreux allegue en son livre des antiquitez le dessu soit Berose aucuns respondent a cela et dient que ce nest pas icelluy Berose qui est de nouveau impresse. Cest a savoir en donnant raison que ce que allegue ledit Iosephus ne se trouve point en Berose ne commente par Annius. Parquoy le tout considere et veu telle ambiguite ie nen dis plus oultre a present. Car de telles antiques hystoires ne pouvons bonnement dire ne affermer a la verite.”

chapter 4 1. Cardano 1994, 244 (1663, 1:216). The ‹rst edition of Cardano’s Encomium Neronis was published with his Somniorum Synesiorum . . . libri IV and other works in Basel in 1562 (= Cardano 1663, 1:179–220). All the works of Machiavelli were placed on the Index of Prohibited Books that was promulgated at Rome in 1559. 2. On Cardano’s horoscopes of historical ‹gures, see Grafton 1999, 85–86, 151–55. Works of Cardano combining theoretical exposition with a collection of examples include In Cl[audii] Ptolomaei Pelusiensis IIII de astrorum iudiciis . . . commentaria. . . . Praeterea eiusdem Hier[onymi] Cardani geniturarum XII . . . utilia exempla (Basel, 1554) (in Cardano 1663, 5:93–368, 503–52), Somniorum Synesiorum . . . libri IIII (Basel, 1562) (in Cardano 1663, 5:593–727), and De methodo medendi sectiones quatuor (Paris, 1565) (in Cardano 1663, 7:199–264). 3. On Cardano’s biography and medical career, see chapter 2, note 49. 4. Cardano, De vita propria, in Cardano 1663, 1.14: “Caput XVIII. Delectatio. . . . Historiarum praeterea lectione praecipue.” An English translation of De vita propria is in Cardano 2002.


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5. For Cardano’s reading of Machiavelli, see the passage cited in note 1 to this chapter; for Giovio, see, in this chapter, the conclusion of the section “The Formation of Cardano’s Historical Ideas and Intellectual Life in Milan and Pavia” and note 64. 6. Cardano 2001, chapter 70, pp. 620–21, 219–22 (text and Italian translation) (1663, 1:409). See further notes 61, 62, and 66 to the present chapter. 7. Cardano, Paralipomena 14–16, “De dubiis ex historiis,” “De clarorum virorum vita et libris,” “De hominum antiquorum illustrium iudicio,” in Cardano 1663, 10:545–70; De arcano aeternitatis tractatus 8–15, in Cardano 1663, 10:13–31. 8. Cardano, Encomium geometriae, in Cardano 1663, 4:442. The Encomium geometriae was ‹rst published with his Somniorum Synesiorum . . . libri IV (Basel, 1562). 9. On Cardano as astrologer and his astrological writings, see Grafton 1999. 10. Cardano 1663, 6:1–7. This Encomium was ‹rst published as one of his Quaedam opuscula (Basel, 1559). 11. See chapter 3, note 47. 12. Cardano, Vita propria, chapter 1, “Patria et maiores”; chapter 2, “Nativitas nostra”—both in Cardano 1663, 1:1–2. Cardano’s book dedications to Milanese ecclesiastics, patricians, of‹cials, and Spanish governors are noted in Maclean 1994, 322, and in the same author’s introduction to Cardano 2004, 17–21. Editions of Cardano’s major works with title pages that identify him as Milanese include Cardano 1557, 1560, and 1570. 13. See, in general, Storia di Milano 1953–66, vol. 8, Tra Francia e Spagna, 1500–1535, and vol. 9, L’epoca di Carlo V, 1535–1559. Volume 9 is also published as Chabod 1971a. 14. Sandal 1988, 9–15; Cavagna 1981, 19–29. 15. Cardano, Vita propria, chapter 4, in Cardano 1663, 1:4. Alciato 1953, no. 97 (April 6, 1536), p. 161; no. 103 (January 1, 1538), pp. 168–69—both cited in Chabod 1971a, 275–76. 16. On Alfonso d’Avalos, Marchese del Vasto, governor from 1538 to 1546, see Gaspare de Caro, “Avalos, Alfonso d’,” DBI 4:612–16; Chabod 1971b, 150–51; Chabod 1971a, 240–344. Writers to whom d’Avalos extended patronage included the poet and dramatist Luca Contile; the historian Paolo Giovio; the poet, religious polemicist, and writer on dueling Girolamo Muzio; Giovanni Alberto Albicante, a minor poet chie›y remembered for a controversy with Pietro Aretino; and Giulio Camillo Delminio, the designer of a celebrated memory theater. See Salza 1903, 37–42; Zimmerman 1995a, 87–106, 150–57, 192–94; editor’s introduction to Muzio 2000, XIII–XVI (Muzio addressed a number of these letters to his patron d’Avalos); Erspamer 1982, 88–96; A. Asor-Rosa, “Albicante, Giovanni Alberto,” DBI 2:1–2; Yates 1966, 135–96. 17. Sandal 1988, 20–27 and following catalog; Cavagna 1981, chapter 3 (analyzing the output of the whole century by subject categories) and catalog entries for the years 1519–62 (pp. 251–67). 18. The bibliography on Alciato (1492–1550) is far too extensive to be listed here; but see R. Abbondanza, “Alciato (Alciati), Andrea,” DBI 2:60–74. Alciato, who was born in or near Milan and studied at Pavia and Bologna, divided his career between Italy and France. He was active in Milan in the 1520s and taught at the University of Pavia from 1533 to 1537 and again from 1546 to 1550. Many of the editions of his numerous works that were published in his lifetime appeared from northern European presses. 19. Examples of works in the last three categories include the civic chronicle of the merchant Giovan Marco Burigozzo, ‹rst published in Burigozzo 1842 (it covers the

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years 1500–1544 and provides a vivid account of famine prices, extortionate taxation, and brutalities and extortions by troops at the beginning of the Spanish rule); Albicante 1538, in verse; and, slightly later, Bugati 1571, an eight-book work whose Milanese author allotted much space to Milanese affairs and personalities and included (1022–26) lists of Milan’s men “famous in various sciences,” important lineages, leading churchmen, civil and canon lawyers, musicians, generals, distinguished women, and artists and artisans. On these authors, see Gaspare de Caro, “Burigozzo, Giovan Marco,” DBI 15:429–30; note 16 to the present chapter (Albicante); Cochrane 1981a, 378–83 (Bugati). 20. Luca Contile’s letter to Francesco Patrizi of August 3, 1562, is quoted in Cavagna 1981, 128; compare Cardano, Vita propria, chapter 30, in Cardano 1663, 1:20–21. On Contile (1505–74) and the Accademia de’ Af‹dati, see (in addition to Salza 1903, 92–98) C. Mutini, “Contile, Luca,” DBI 28: 495–502; Cavagna 1981, 127–32; Maylender 1926–30, 1:72–79; Pissavino 1993. 21. D. Bianchi 1913, 1–57; Alciato 1973 (manuscript facsimile); Alciato 1625 (in three books); Milan, Biblioteca Ambrosiana, MS A 136 inf., Andrea Alciato, “Rerum patriae libri iv.” For Alciato’s edition of Tacitus, see note 79 to this chapter. 22. B. Castiglione 1541. On Castiglione (1487–1555), a canon of Santa Maria della Scala, later priest of Sant’Ambrogio, and appointed inquisitor in 1553, see M. Palma, “Castiglione, Bonaventura,” DBI 22:124–26. Castiglione was responsible for drawing up the Index of Prohibited Books that was published in Milan in 1554 and also wrote a treatise against Jews. 23. Milan, Biblioteca Ambrosiana, MS N 153 bis sup., fols. 1–174, Bonaventura Castiglione, “Vite dei primi undici vescovi di Milano” (1553) (inc. “Bonaventura Castiglione Prevosto di Santo Ambrogio maggiore al venerabile clero et alli cittadini di Milano”). The comments on new religious orders occur on fols. 24v–25v; those on depredations of the soldiery (among them “una chiurma di tedeschi heretici luterani”) in 1526 on fol. 172v; those on the destruction of churches on fols. 5v, 37r–40v, 174r. The work has been edited in Enrico Cattaneo, ed., Cataloghi e biogra‹e dei vescovi di Milano: Dalle origini al secolo XVI (Milan: NED, 1982). On the building projects, ambitions, and downfall of Ferrante Gonzaga, governor 1546–54 (whom Castiglione did not mention by name), see Mozzarelli 1993. 24. On Merula (1500–1555), see the editor’s introduction to Merula 1963; Butti 1899. 25. Merula 1538, with the section on noble families in book 1, chapter 5, pp. 41–55; Milan, Biblioteca Brera, MS A F X I, fols. 1–131, “Gaudentii Merulae Novariensis Cronica de claris antiquissimisque Italorum aliarumque gentium familiis.” The latter work is arranged alphabetically by family name and traces many Milanese noble families to Roman or even earlier origins. The Argonauts appear on 10v. 26. For example, B. Castiglione 1541, 31, 36, 53, 62, 128. 27. Merula 1538, 5–6; the denunciation of Annius of Viterbo ascribed to Bonaventura Castiglione is in book 3, chapter 5, pp. 144–45. 28. Milan, Biblioteca Ambrosiana, MS C 65 inf., autograph of Francesco Ciceri, “Antiquorum monumentorum urbis Mediolani ab Alciato praetermissorum ad Galeatium Brugoram libri II,” 72 fols. The Biblioteca Ambrosiana also holds several other copies. On Ciceri (1521–96), see R. Ricciardi, “Ciceri (Cicereius, Cicerinus), Francesco,” DBI 25:383–86. 29. On them, see, in addition to the sources cited in the following notes, Cochrane 1981a, 187–89.


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30. Capella 1535, Aiir. 31. I have consulted the editions of Milan, 1531; Venice, 1535; and Venice, 1539. On Capella (1487–1537) and his career, other writings, and other editions and translations of this work, see R. Ricciardi, “Capra (Capella, Cappella), Galeazzo,” DBI 19:123–26. The best known of his other works is a treatise on the dignity of women, Capra [Capella] 1988; the editor’s introduction (p. 5 and note 1) also calls attention to the 1538 Wittenberg edition of a German translation of Capella’s history with preface by Martin Luther, which I have not seen. On use of Caesar, the historical genre of “commentarii,” and historical writing under the earlier Sforza, see Ianziti 1988, 1–60, 138–241. For Guicciardini’s use of Capella, see the editor’s introduction in Guicciardini 1971, 1:CXVI. For examples of Guicciardini’s references to Capella by name and use of substantial passages from his work, see ibid., 3:1584, 1590–95 (15.14); 3:1884 (18.13); 3:1969 (19.5); 3:1999–2000 (19.10). 32. Milan, Biblioteca Ambrosiana, MS B 77 suss., printed copy of Capella 1535, with manuscript additions and corrections. A vernacular manuscript letter inserted at the end, dated March 28, 1536, from Capella at Milan to Petro Rusco at Locarno, asks Rusco to keep the revised copy safe for future publication “perche in questo mezzo potriano occurrere et disturbi di guerre et altre cose che impediviano et potriano farlo smarrari a tenerlo qui.” 33. Alciato 1953, no. 86 (Alciato to Pietro Bembo, October 7, 1533), pp. 147–48, mentions an exchange of correspondence with Capella in which, on account of Capella’s closeness to Francesco II, Alciato had written “dissumulanter” about his willingness to obey the duke and teach in Pavia rather than accepting an invitation to Padua. Capella’s exchange of letters with Benedetto Giovio is found in Biblioteca Ambrosiana, MS I 47 inf., Benedetto Giovio, short treatises and letters: fols. 43r–v, Galeacius Capella Benedicto Iovio; fols. 43v–44v, Benedictus Jovius Galeacio Capello. Giovio commented (44r): “Porro orationis ‹lum variare mihi visum non est, quae licet alio atque alio stilo condi posset, temporibus tamen et personis accommodata, nec a Latina abest elegantia.” For Merula’s references to Capella and his supposed ancestry, see Merula 1538, 1.5, pp. 54–55; 2, proem, p. 78. R. Ricciardi, “Capra (Capella, Cappella), Galeazzo,” DBI 19:125, calls attention to Merula’s role in editing the edition of Capella’s Commentarii published in Strasbourg in 1538. I have not seen this edition. 34. Vegio 1876b, 1876a. Milan, Biblioteca Ambrosiana, MS O 140 sup., Scipione Vegio, “Fragmentum historicum, de rebus gestis Francisci Sfortiae pro recuperando ducatu Mediolanensi annis 1522 et 1523,” 66 fols., proem, fols. 1r–3r (inc. “Cum maxime vir amplissime . . .”). At 1v: “At scio dices parum convenire philosopho historias scribere. Fecit hoc idem Epimenides Cretensis[.]” On Vegio (d. 1535), see Ceruti 1876, ix–xx. 35. On Benedetti, see the preface to part 2 of this volume, and for Corio’s unacknowledged borrowing, see the editor’s introduction in Corio 1978, 1:25. Corio 1978 (‹rst published Milan, 1503) covers the history of Milan from the origins until 1499. On Corio, see also F. Petrucci, “Corio, Bernardino,” DBI 29:75–78. 36. Merula 1876. Ceruti notes Merula’s French orientation; Ceruti 1876, xi. There are versions of the histories by Vegio and Merula in Biblioteca Ambrosiana, MS Trotti 294, fols. 1r–85, Scipione Vegio, “Scipionis Vegii prothophysici Mediolanensis Ephemeridum Liber I[–II]”; fols. 87r–151r, Gaudenzio Merula, “Suae aetatis rerum gestarum libri III.” 37. Gaudenzio Merula, Querula apologetica, following his De Gallorum Cisalpinorum antiquitate, in Merula 1538, 215–30.

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38. Speziano 1876, with the account of the siege of the Castello on 148–50. On Speziano (d. 1545), see Ceruti 1876, xi–xii. Castiglione’s essay addressed to Speziano is found in B. Castiglione 1541, 130–33. 39. Milan, Biblioteca Ambrosiana, MS A 114 inf., Bernardino Arluno, “Historia mediolanensis,” part 1; MS A 107 inf., idem, “De bello veneto ab anno 1500 ad 1516, sive historiarum ab origine urbis Mediolanensis sectio secunda”; MS A 140 inf., idem, “Historiarum urbis Mediolanensis sectio 3.” Only the second section was ever printed, as Arluno 1722. Milan, Biblioteca Ambrosiana, MS D 101 inf., Bernardino Arluno, panegyrics: fols. 12r–42v, “Auspicatissimo et invictissimo Galliarum Regi Francisco Mediolani Duci Bernardini Arluno jureconsulti panegyricus”; fols. 43r–55r, “Auspicatissimo et invictissimo Galliarum Regi Ludovici Mediolani Duci Bernardini Arluno Jureconsulti panegyricus”; fols. 56r–99r, “Illustrissimo et sapientissimo Principe Antonio Leivae Caesareo in cisalpina Gallia gubernatoris, Bernardinus Arlunus iureconsultus.” On Arluno (1478–1535), see N. Raponi, “Arluno, Bernardino,” DBI 4: 217–18; Cochrane 1981a, 185–87. 40. On Maioragio (1514–55), see R. Ricciardi, “Conti (Comes, Maioragius), Antonio Maria (Marcus Antonius),” DBI 28:359–64; much information about Maioragio (and others, including Capella, Castiglione, Ciceri, Merula, Speziano, and Vegio) is also found in Albonico 1990, 181–220, 277–90. Alciato 1953, no. 110 (December 21, 1539), pp. 176–77, is addressed to Maioragio. Milan, Biblioteca Ambrosiana, MS A 114 inf., Bernardino Arluno, “Historia mediolanensis,” part 1, fols. IIIr–Vr, “M. Antonii Maioragii, in historiam Bernardini Arluni, ad Mediolanenses cives praefatio.” 41. Milan, Biblioteca Ambrosiana, MS A 114 inf., Bernardino Arluno, “Historia Mediolanensis,” part 1, fol. IIIr, preface by Maioragio: “hinc [sc. ex historica cognitione] longe melius et illustrius quam ex philosophorum praeceptis discere licet, quid honestim factum, quid turpe, quid expetendum, quid fugiendum esse videatur.” Maioragio’s critique of Cicero occurs in Maioragio 1546. 42. Maioragio 1553, 1552. The subject of Maioragio’s Epistola, Niccolò Secchi (ca. 1500–1560), the dedicatee of two of Cardano’s accounts of his own books (Cardano 2004, 169, 229 [1663, 1:60, 96]) was the author of comedies and Latin verse as well as Milan’s captain of justice. On the date of Secchi’s death, see the editor’s introduction to Cardano 2004, 18. 43. Maioragio 1561, 102: “Nam longe felicioribus auspiciis hoc tempore, multoque puriori ‹de, religione, sanctitate, senatus hic nostra Mediolanensis iusticiam exercet, aequitatem tuetur, in commune bonum consulit.” On the Milanese Senate in this period, see Petronio 1972, 1–166; Vianello 1935. 44. For Ciceri, see note 28 to this chapter. The correspondence between Oporinus and Ciceri regarding the publication of both works is found in Casati 1782 and Burman 1697. For a complete list of the letters between Ciceri and Oporinus published in these two volumes, see Steinmann 1967, 125–27. Burman 1697 also includes several letters from Maioragio to Ciceri about the possibility of publishing Maioragio’s Reprehensiones and other works with Oporinus; the originals of some of these letters are in Wolfenbüttel, Herzog August Bibliothek, MS Gud. 25. Maioragio’s Reprehensiones contra Marium Nizolium appeared in 1549, without the name of the printer and with Milan (falsely) given as the place of publication (R. Ricciardi, “Conti (Comes Maioragius), Antonio Maria (Marcus Antonius),” DBI 28: 362). The project to publish Arluno ‹nally petered


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out in June 1553. For letters from Oporinus to Ciceri, see Burman 1697, letters 77, 79, 81–92, pp. 165–80. For letters from Ciceri to Oporinus, see Casati 1782, 6.11, 1:175–75; 7.4, 1:195–97; 8.17, 1:241–42. Burman 1697, letter 82 (Oporinus to Ciceri, November 4, 1550), p. 171: “In iisdem etiam de Arluni historia nonnihil adjeceram, quod eam hactenus perlegendam Censoribus dare oportuerit, qui locum quendam de Helvetiis, ubi de Ducis Mediolanensis proditione scribit, repererunt, propter quam ipsa tota historia ut a nobis excudi possit valde metuo. Movebo tamen omnem lapidem, ut excudetur, sive mutato eo loco, sive omisso; sive (quod melius multo) si hic non liceat alibi ut excudendam meo sumptu curem.” Casati 1782, 8.17 (Ciceri to Oporinus, April 1551), 1:242: “ut eo tenacius tuo ipsius adhaereret animo, ut scilicet (si commode tamen ‹eri potest) historiae Arluni eandem medelam adhibeas, qua in Helvetiis te usum fuisse scribis, ubi incideris in eum locum ubi scriptor, ut opinor, agens de iis, quae gesta sunt ad Clavenam [i.e., Chiavenna] multa atrocius dicit in Jacobum Medicen olim Mussii Marchionem.” For Cardano’s opinion of Gian Giacomo Medici (1497–1556), see discussion later in the present chapter. 45. Cardano 1543, Qiir–v, no. 21, geniture of Capella (also in Cardano 1547; 1663, 5:473). 46. Cardano 1543, Oiir–v, no. 13, geniture of Alciato (also in Cardano 1547; 1663, 5:466); Cardano, Vita propria, chapters 15 and 48, in Cardano 1663, 1:12, 47. The only years during which Alciato and Cardano could have been teaching at Pavia simultaneously were 1546–50. Alciato taught there in 1533–37 and 1546–50 (R. Abbondanza, “Alciato (Alciati), Andrea,” DBI 2:73), but in the former period, Cardano was ‹rst at Gallarate and then teaching mathematics in Milan (Cardano, Vita propria, chapter 4, in Cardano 1663, 1:4). 47. But Alciato did not provide Cardano’s contacts with northern publishers; see Maclean 1994. 48. On Cardano’s response to Alciato’s astrological emblems, see Grafton 1999, 128–31; Ernst 2001, 44–45. Vegio 1876b, 2, noted Massimiliano Sforza’s misplaced con‹dence in an astrologer “qui genesi concisa portendi Insubrium illi imperium passim dicere.” Gaudenzio Merula remarked (Biblioteca Ambrosiana, MS Trotti 294, fol. 100v): “postmodum eventus docuit insomniis astrologorum esse fallacius nihil, nihil denique magis ridiculum.” 49. Cardano, Aphorismorum astronomicorum segmenta septem, in Cardano 1663, 5:46–47, originally published as part of his Libelli quinque (Nuremberg, 1547); see also Grafton 1999, 73. 50. Cardano, Vita propria, chapter 48, in Cardano 1663, 1:46; Merula 1556, book 5, chapter 49, p. 421, “Franciscus Casetus, et Hieronymus Cardanus interlocutores.” 51. Cardano, Vita propria, chapter 15, in Cardano 1663, 1:12; Cardano, Synesiorum somniorum . . . libri IV, 4.4, in Cardano 1663, 5:720. The latter work was ‹rst published in Basel in 1563. 52. R. Ricciardi, “Conti (Comes, Maioragius), Antonio Maria (Marcus Antonius),” DBI 28:360. R. Ricciardi, “Ciceri (Cicereius, Cicerinus), Francesco,” DBI 25:384 (Ciceri studied with Cardano’s pupil Lodovico Ferrari, who taught mathematics in Milan and, later, Bologna); Cardano, De radice cina. Responsum petitioni M. Antonii Maioragii, in

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Cardano 1663, 7:265–66 (= Consilium 27, in Cardano 1663, 9:168–69); Cardano, De admirandis curationibus, et praedictionibus morborum, praedictio, 7, in Cardano 1663, 7:263 (De admirandis curationibus was ‹rst published as part of Cardano, De methodo medendi sectiones quatuor [Paris, 1564]). 53. Cardano, De exemplis centum geniturarum, no. 77, geniture of Maioragio (originally published in Libelli quinque [Nuremberg, 1547]), in Cardano 1663, 5:494: “multa etiam quam vidi conscripsit, sed duo tantum edita volumina, vir certe mirabilis.” 54. Maioragio 1546, 92. The paradox “stultos omnes insanire” is the subject of book 4, pp. 149–76. On this work and on Maioragio’s role in the Ciceronian controversy, see Breen 1958. On Maioragio and the Trasformati, see Maylender 1926–30, 5:339–40. 55. See note 53 to this chapter. 56. Cardano 2004, 341–42 (1663, 1:135). This version of the work was originally published in 1562, seven years after Maioragio’s death, and dedicated to Niccolò Secchi (see note 42 to the present chapter). Maioragi 1563, no. 1, “Quod apud antiquos eadem fuerit lyra quae cithera. M. Antonius Maioragius, Hieronymo Cardano medico,” pp. 5–11, with the conversation referred to at 5. 57. Cardano, De consolatione libri tres (‹rst published Venice, 1542), in Cardano 1663, 1:619: “Ibi dif‹cultate Latinae linguae (ut qui nunquam vel semel scholas invisissem) non parum laborabam[.]” Cardano’s Latin was vigorously criticized in his own time by Julius Caesar Scaliger as well as by more recent critics; see Jensen 1994, especially 291–308. 58. Casati 1782, 9.3 (Ciceri to Cardano, undated [1552?]), 2:5–10, and Wolfenbüttel, Herzog August Bibliothek, MS Gud. lat. 25, fols. 19r–20r, “Hieronymus Cardanus medicus Francisco Cicereio Rhetori” (letter printed in Burman 1697, letter 33, pp. 119–21), relate to the schooling of Giovanni Battista Cardano. Casati 1782, 11.2 (Ciceri to Cardano, undated), 2:90–91, mentions Cardano’s revisions: “Scribis, te emendare aggressum fuisse librum, quem de Subtilitate inscripsisti in eoque expoliendo plus laboris insumere, quam unquam alias in instituendo, et per‹ciendo. Quod facile crediderim tibi homini in dies nova de eruditissimo pectore tuo depromenti. Hanc autem emendationem, atque recognitionem tuam ita ad vivum, quod aiunt, resecari dicis, ut vel in vocabulo uno haereas, ut quoad ejus ‹eri potest, latinius reddatur.” The ‹rst edition of De subtilitate appeared in 1550, the second, extensively revised by Cardano, in 1554. 59. Compare Cardano, In librum Hippocratis de aere, aquis, et locis commentarii (‹rst published Basel, 1570), book 8, lectio 104, in Cardano 1663, 8:203, and B. Castiglione 1541, 27. 60. For example, Cardano 2001, chapter 113, pp. 417–19, 716–17 (1663, 1:459); Cardano, De utilitate ex adversis capienda libri III (‹rst published Basel, 1561), 3.1 and 3.22, in Cardano 1663, 2:97, 214; Cardano, De arcano aeternitatis tractatus, in Cardano 1663, 10:38–40; Cardano 1994, 62, 108, 156 (1663, 1:185, 193, 201). Memory or oral testimony doubtless also provided recollections of recent events. Cardano’s occasional remarks about earlier Milanese history may, of course, have been drawn from his reading of any of a number of earlier sources. 61. Cardano 2001, chapter 70, pp. 221–22, 621 (1663, 1:409). On the Renaissance use of and the sources in Cicero and Pliny for the story of Zeuxis, who painted a composite picture of a perfectly beautiful woman from ‹ve models, see Grafton 2000b, 146–48. 62. Cardano 2001, chapter 70, pp. 221, 621 (1663, 1:409).


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63. Cardano, De arcano aeternitatis tractatus, chapter 13, in Cardano 1663, 10:27. 64. Cardano 1994, 244 (1663, 1:216). Giovio 1551 included de Leyva. The accusations of venality and bias against Giovio were probably unjust; see Zimmerman 1995a, 243–44, 264. 65. Cardano, De rerum varietate (‹rst published Basel, 1557), 8.43 and 8.44, in Cardano 1663, 3:162, 168. 66. Cardano 2001, chapter 70, pp. 620 (1663, 1:409): “Propterea multum refert historias legere: non solum ut prudentior ‹as . . . sed ut cognoscendo quanta mala maneant mortales, et quam deteriora alii passi sint, alii intulerint, discas tuam sortem patientius ferre.” 67. Petronio 1972, 108 and elsewhere; Mozzarelli 1993, 128–31; Pissavino 1993 shows that the academies of the Af‹dati of Pavia and Trasformati of Milan proclaimed their obedience to the sovereign and commitment to stability under Spanish rule, while still retaining some place for political interests and discussion. However, Chabod 1971a, 152–55, notes that some members of the Milanese nobility and clergy remained Francophile into the 1550s. 68. See Nadel 1964; Landfester 1972, especially chapter 3; Koselleck 1985; Regoliosi 1991; Hampton 1990, 3–8; Muhlack 1991. 69. See Bruni’s preface to his Historiarum ›orentini populi libri XII, cited in Landfester 1972, 132–33, together with the remarks of a number of other humanists to the same effect. 70. Lyons 1989, 35–71, especially 66–71; Black 1987; Grafton 1991a; Hampton 1990, 8–30, 63–80; Kahn 1994, 18–33; “The Crisis of Exemplarity,” special section, Journal of the History of Ideas 59 (1998): 557–624 (essays by François Rigolot, Michel Jeanneret, Karlheinz Stierele, Timothy Hampton, and François Cornilliat). Guicciardini 2000, where one ‹nds “Ma perché e’ casi sono vari, e lo autore confonde gli esempli, bisogna considerare . . .” (1.10, p. 342), among many similar remarks; Guicciardini 1992, 110, p. 136: “Quanto si ingannono coloro che a ogni parola allegano e Romani! Bisognerebbe avere una città condizionata come era loro, e poi governarsi secondo quello essemplo: el quale a chi ha le qualità disproporzionate è tanto disproporzionato, quanto sarebbe volere che uno asino facessi el corso di uno cavallo.” Guicciardini’s Considerazioni were written around 1528, and the Ricordi were completed in 1530. 71. A number of instances of Cardano’s practice of appending collections of cases or examples to theoretical works and of his retroactive admissions of errors of judgment are discussed in Grafton 1999 and Siraisi 1997; see also Grafton 2000a, especially 55. On the uses of example in Renaissance medicine, see Gadebusch-Bondio forthcoming. 72. The most important discussion of the philosophical content of the Encomium Neronis is Ingegno 1980, 184–208; for an interpretation that stresses the immediate political and biographical context, see the editor’s introduction to Cardano 1994, 11–17. 73. See, for example, Cardano’s discussion of the paradoxical nature of commentary in Commentarii in Aphorismos Hippocratis, 1.17, in Cardano 1663, 8:251. 74. Nero is described as a monster in Cardano, De consolatione, 2 (in Cardano 1663, 1:612), and in De exemplis centum geniturarum, no. 40 (in Cardano 1663, 5:480). 75. Cardano, Encomium geometriae, in Cardano 1663, 4:440. On the Renaissance genre of the mock encomium, see Tomarken 1990. Most of the speci‹c discussion of Cardano in this work, however, relates to his encomium on gout.

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76. Ingegno 1980, 186–88, 199–206. For humanist views, especially those of Bruni and Giovio, on the distinction between biography (considered part of history) and encomium, see Zimmerman 1995b, 39–43. 77. Guicciardini 1992, 18, p. 28: “Insegna molto bene Cornelio Tacito a chi vive sotto a’ tiranni el modo di vivere e governarsi prudentemente, così come insegna a’ tiranni e modi di fondare la tirannide.” 78. On the transmission and reception of Tacitus, see bibliography cited in chapter 1, note 125. 79. Tacitus 1517. Alciato’s preface (his encomium of history) follows the text and precedes his annotations. This preface and Alciato’s brief, somewhat antiquarian annotations to the Annals were included in the major editions of Tacitus’s works published before the mid-sixteenth century, such as Tacitus 1533. Alciato’s encomium was also several times printed apart from editions of Tacitus, most recently in Alciato 1953, 221–26. For a complete list of editions and commentaries on Tacitus published before the mid-sixteenth century, see Etter 1966, 213. 80. Cardano 1994, 24, 248 (1663, 1:179, 217). At 62 (1:185): “. . . si per iniusta procedatur et ad potentiores semper procedat favor, necesse est, ut brevi res in tyrannidem evadat, et regnum vel Respublica ruat. . . . Porro, quam invalida sint huiusmodi regna, quae potentioribus favent, ostenderunt in Italia nostra aetate Neapolitanum, Insubrum, Taurinum et Salassiorum: quae omnia nostra aetate dominos commutarunt.” 81. Cardano 1994, 168–76 (1663, 1:203–4); compare, in the present chapter, “The Formation of Cardano’s Historical Ideas and Intellectual Life in Milan and Pavia” and note 43. 82. Cardano 1994, 12. 83. Cardano, Liber XII geniturarum, no. 6, in Cardano 1663, 5:514. The work was ‹rst published in 1554 with Cardano’s commentary on Ptolemy’s Tetrabiblos (see note 2 to the present chapter); on this collection, see Grafton 1999, chapter 7. For Arluno’s evaluation of Gian Giacomo Medici, see note 44 to this chapter. 84. Cardano 1543, no. 30, S[iv]r–v (1663, 5:477): “patriae nostrae magnum decus.” 85. As already noted, Gian Giacomo’s brother Giovanni Angelo Medici became Pope Pius IV (r. 1559–65); their sister Margarita de’ Medici, the wife of Count Ghiberto Borromeo, was Cardano’s patient. She was the mother of St. Carlo Borromeo, later one of Cardano’s patrons. See Cardano, Vita propria, chapter 17, in Cardano 1663, 1:13. 86. Cardano, De arcano aeternitatis tractatus, chapter 19, in Cardano 1663, 10:38: “Obiiciat forsan quis strenuos duces fuisse et forsan raros Io. Iacobum Trivultium et Medicem, sed tamen ambo prius infensi potentiae fuere quam decori: alter Gallos invexit in urbem, alter cives pro hostibus habuit; ut audacter dicere possimus non posse eundem esse bonum ducem et civem.” 87. Many speci‹c instances of these attitudes scattered through Cardano’s medical works are noted in Siraisi 1997; for Cardano’s critque of Galen, see especially 138–42. 88. Cardano, Paralipomenon, 15.6, in Cardano 1663, 10:557. 89. Cardano, Paralipomenon, 16.4, in Cardano 1663, 10:568: “Quod igitur ad argumentum attinet, Virgilius Homero et Ariosto longe inferior est.” The chapter is brie›y discussed and translated into Spanish in Socas 1988–89. On sixteenth-century comparisons of Ariosto and Virgil (by both admirers and critics of the former), see Javitch 1991, especially 16–17, 26–27.


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90. Cardano, Paralipomenon, 16.1–5, in Cardano 1663, 10:562–70. 91. Cardano, Paralipomenon, 16.1, in Cardano 1663, 10:562: “Multos vidi nec immerito ambiguos fuisse, inferendo iudicium de claris viris, seu literis seu armis inclaruerint, adeo ut Plutarchus, cum disertissime Ciceronis vitam, tum etiam Demosthenis scripsisset, non solum inferendo iudicium de comparatione illorum mutaverit, sed etiam ipse tum alii admirentur; vel cur tam clarus evaserit, cum esset natura adeo ineptus, vel cur cum tam clarus esset, tot admiserit errores.” 92. Cardano, Paralipomenon, 16.1, in Cardano 1663, 10:562–63. 93. Cardano, Paralipomenon, 16.5, in Cardano 1663, 10:570. 94. Cardano, Paralipomenon, 16.2, in Cardano 1663, 10:563–66. 95. See chapter 3, “Antiquity and Arabic Medical Authors” and notes 70–71. 96. Cardano, Paralipomenon, 16.5, in Cardano 1663, 10:570: “Anno Christi MCLXXII, qui ab hinc CCCIIC habetur[.]” 97. See, for example, Smoller 1994, especially chapter 4; Zambelli 1986; Grafton 1983–93, 2:349–57. 98. See chapter 1, note 10; and the section “Peoples, Climate, and History in Airs Waters Places” in chapter 2. 99. Cardano, De arcano aeternitatis tractatus, 11, in Cardano 1663, 10:17–24. A brief discussion of Cardano’s ideas on the fall of Rome is in Demandt 1984, 100–101. 100. Cardano, Commentarii in Ptolemeum, de Astrorum iudiciis (‹rst published Basel, 1554), 1.3.24, in Cardano 1663, 5:113. 101. Cardano, De arcano aeternitatis tractatus, 9, in Cardano 1663, 10:14–16. 102. Cardano, Paralipomenon, 1.10, in Cardano 1663, 10:437–39. See also Siraisi 1999. 103. Cardano, De venenis, 1.9, in Cardano 1663, 7:285–87. The work was ‹rst published, under the title De venenorum differentiis . . . libri III, with Cardano’s In septem Aphorismorum Hippocratis particulas commentaria (Basel, 1564). 104. Cardano, Paralipomenon, 1.10, in Cardano 1663, 10:437: “Videtur autem magna dubitatio, an ut quidam dicunt, pestis sit velut in corporibus ›uxus ventris periodicus. Abundante enim humano genere, nec natura ferente tantam multitudinem hominum, tum ob urbium plenitudinem, tum ob inopiam alimentorum, videtur necessaria pestis, ut ea multitudo alleviatur.” 105. Cardano, Paralipomenon, 1.10, in Cardano 1663, 10:437–39; 439: “Fieri ergo potest, ut [pestis] sit ex necessitate non solum fati, sed etiam ad ornamentum mundi, velut quod pereant imbecilles, morbosi, mali habitus, intemperati, et ex consequenti pravi etiam; et surgat novum genus hominum incolumius, melioris habitus, formosius, robustius, longioris vitae, simplicioris animi, ac meliorum morum.” 106. Cardano, Expositio Anatomiae Mondini, in Cardano 1663, 10:129–31. The passage is discussed in Siraisi 1997, 105–9. 107. Cardano, In quatuor primas principis primae sectionis doc[t]rinas [i.e., Avicenna’s Canon] . . . (1561), proem, in Cardano 1663, 10:455–57. 108. Cardano, Ars curandi parva, in Cardano 1663, 7:192–94; Siraisi 1997, 126. 109. Cardano, Medicinae encomium, in Cardano 1663, 6:1–7, with most of the historical material at 1–4. 110. On medicine as a divine gift, see Crisiciani 1990; on the concept of “Christus medicus,” see Arbesmann 1954; G. Fichtner 1982; Lutterbach 1996. 111. Cardano, Medicinae encomium, in Cardano 1663, 6:2–3. An Italian translation

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of Commynes’s memoirs was published in 1544 in Venice, under the title La historia formosa di monsignor di Argenton delle guerre et costumi di Ludovico undecimo re di Francia.

chapter 5 This chapter is an expanded and revised version of Siraisi 2005. My thanks to Silvia de Renzi for helpful comments on a draft of the earlier version. 1. Modio 1556; Petroni 1552; Bacci 1558 (enlarged edition, Bacci 1576); Petroni 1581 (Italian translation, Petroni 1592), book 2, chapter 5; D’Onofrio 1986, 33–42. 2. On Bacci, see M. Crespi, “Bacci, Andrea,” DBI 5:29–30; Caetani 1924, 40–43; D’Onofrio 1986, 39–42; Vecchietti 1791, 2–7; Panelli 1757–58, 2:209–17; Carafa 1751, 2:358; Marini 1784, 1:464, and supplement by P. Mandosio, 13–16; Renazzi 1804–05, 2:195; Conte 1991, 2:861; Saffrey 1994; Thorndike 1959, 5:484–85, 6:315–16; Simili 1971; Stefanutti 1979. I have not seen F. P. Massi, Andrea Bacci, memorie sparse (Rome, 1883), and L. Münster, “Studi e ricerche sull’opera scienti‹ca di Andrea Bacci da S. Elpidio,” in Atti del III Convegno della Marca per la storia della medicina (Fermo, 1959), 99–103. 3. On Cagnati, see G. Stabile, “Cagnati, Marsilio,” DBI 16:301–3; Renazzi 1804–5, 3:41, 92; Conte 1991, 2:947; Carafa 1751, 2:361. 4. On Vittori, see the editor’s preface to Vittori 1640, A3r–v; Marini 1784, 1:458–59. For his birth and approximate death dates, see his declaration in Incisa della Rocchetta et al. 1957–63, 4:35, which gives his age as sixty-three in 1610, and the preface to Vittori 1640, which states that he continued to practice medicine until the eighty-sixth year of his life. 5. On Petroni, see Marini 1784, 1:422–23, 454–55; D’Onofrio 1986, 38–39. 6. Freedberg 2002, 280–82, calls attention to the numerous physicians in the Roman circle of the Lincean physician and naturalist Johann Faber (1574–1629). On Faber, see De Renzi 1996. 7. Of the literature on Cassiano, I cite here only Herklotz 1999. For a description and bibliography of the ongoing publication of a catalogue raisonné of his remarkable collection of drawings of antiquities, plants, and animals, see http://www2.sas.ac.uk/ warburg/pozzo/default.htm. 8. For a summary, with bibliographical references, of the sponsorship of translations of ancient works on the life sciences by Nicholas V and Sixtus IV, see Siraisi 1993. On Mercati, see Loris Premuda, “Mercati, Michele,” DSB 9:308–9; Accordi 1980. I make no attempt to list the growing bibliography on the Lincei and life sciences, but see Freedberg 2002; Clericuzio and De Renzi 1995; De Renzi 2000. 9. Among many studies of antiquarianism, Momigliano 1950 is foundational. On Renaissance antiquarianism, with special reference to Rome, see sources cited in the present volume in chapter 1, notes 13 and 70. 10. For Marcanova’s career, see M. King 1986, 392–93. Several manuscripts of his Collectio antiquitatum, which may draw on the work of Ciriaco d’Ancona, are extant; see Alexander 1994, nos. 66–67, pp. 143–45; on Marcanova’s relations with artists and antiquaries, see also P. Brown 1996, 120–26. A digitized version of one manuscript— Princeton University Library, Garrett MS 158—can be seen at http://libweb5.prince ton.edu/visual_materials/garrett/garrett_ms_158.‹nal.pdf.


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11. Curran and Grafton 1995. On Alberti’s extensive antiquarian interests, see Grafton 2000b, chapter 7. 12. On Altieri and his Li nuptiali (ca. 1500), see Klapisch-Zuber 1985; Kolsky 1987. For the genealogical claims of Roman families, see Bizzocchi 1995, 9–13. Regarding an inventive forger of such genealogies in the 1560s, see A. Petrucci, “Ceccarelli, Alfonso,” DBI 23:199–202. 13. On Leto and the suppression the Roman Academy, see Rowland 1998, 10–17; D’Amico 1983, 91–97; Osmond 2003. 14. Stenhouse 2005b. 15. I make no attempt to supply full bibliography on Christian antiquarianism and ecclesiastical history in sixteenth-century Rome, but see Grafton 1993, 112–17; Grassi Fiorentino 1982; Ditch‹eld 1998, Ditch‹eld 2000. 16. Delumeau 1957, 1:327–49; D’Onofrio 1986; Rinne 2000; Rinne 2001–2; Cof‹n 1979, especially chapters 8 and 9; Cof‹n 1991; Lazzaro 1990, chapter 9. For an example of antiquities and antiquarianism in a garden setting, see Cellauro 1995. 17. On the expansion of Rome’s population in the sixteenth century and the large numbers of immigrants, see Delumeau 1957, 1:188–220. 18. On the University of Rome in the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, see Renazzi 1804–5, vol. 2 and vol. 3, book 4; Carafa 1751, 1:195–234; Conte 1991; E. Conte 1992. On the faculty of medicine, see Renazzi 1804–5, 2:188–97; Carafa 1751, 2:353–81 (biobibliographies of professors of medicine from the early sixteenth to the mid-eighteenth centuries); Stroppiana 1985, 12–13; Andretta 2003–4. I am most grateful to Elisa Andretta for providing me with a copy of her work. 19. On anatomical dissection in Renaissance Rome, see, in addition to the sources cited in note 18 to the present chapter, Carlino 1999, 77–119. 20. For the history of the chair of simples at the university and the Vatican botanic garden, see Cof‹n 1991, 210–14 and bibliography there cited. On Salviani (1514–72), see Renazzi 1804–5, 2:188–91; DSB 12:89–90; on his exchanges with Aldrovandi, Pinon 2002. 21. On teaching at Santo Spirito, see De Angelis 1948, 23–28; De Angelis 1952, 92–94; and De Renzi 1999, especially 105–9. Grégoire 1979, 233–54, includes an edition of the 1623 Relatio of Domenico Borgarucci, which contains one of the earliest references to lectures at the hospital (238). The lectures and dissections at the hospital are also described in Saulnier 1649, 143. 22. For Cagnati’s association with Petroni as pupil and subsequently as colleague at Santo Spirito, see G. Stabile, “Cagnati, Marsilio,” DBI 16:301. For Vittori’s instruction in medical practice under Petroni, see further the discussion later in this chapter and note 101. Petroni’s name does not occur in the university rotuli, which are, however, not complete for the sixteenth century (Conte 1991, 1:viii–x); my thanks to Elisa Andretta for the information that her archival research has not shown any ties between Petroni and the university. Petroni’s written works included a Dialogi de re medica (Petroni 1561), dedicated to the cardinal of Trent, Cristofero Madruzzi; several of its dialogues are part of an un‹nished commentary on some of the Hippocratic Aphorisms. For Petroni’s other works, see discussion later in this chapter. For his connection with Ignatius Loyola, who visited Petroni when he was ill, see Acta Sanctorum Julii 1731, 7:617; Relatio . . . super vita . . . Beati Ignatii 1644, 34. The story of this visit is also found in Bardi 1644, 10.4, p. 217.

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23. For an account of the of‹ce of protomedico, see Pertile 1902, vol. 2, part 2, 212–14; Garofalo 1950 (my thanks to Gianna Pomata for drawing my attention to the works of Pertile and Garofalo); Gentilcore 1994; Carlino 1999, 70–75. For the role of the protomedico and the College of Physicians in conferring degrees, see Statuta 1642, no. 34, pp. 47–49, “De collegii facultate in creandis doctoribus, et rationem in eorum creatione servanda.” 24. Bacci’s chair is described as in “botanica” in M. Crespi, “Bacci, Andrea,” DBI 5:29, and Renazzi 1804–5, 2:195, but as in “simplicia medicamenta” in university rotuli edited in Conte 1991, 2:861. According to Bacci’s own account, he was personal physician to Felice Peretti for eighteen years before the latter’s elevation to the papacy as Sixtus V in 1585 (Bacci 1596, book 4, part 1, p. 131). Peretti may have chosen Bacci in part because the two men came from the same region of Italy. Bacci’s subsequent appointment as papal physician is noted in Crespi, DBI 5:29 but questioned by D’Onofrio 1986, 39. 25. D’Onofrio 1986, 39, quotes a negative opinion from 1645 regarding Bacci’s skills as a practitioner, but it is dif‹cult to know how to evaluate such judgments in the context of premodern medicine. 26. On Cagnati’s writings, see discussion later in this chapter. Garofalo 1950 documents his appointments as protomedico in 1595 (25, 31) and 1602 (15). Pomata 1998, 138–39, points out that in the late sixteenth and seventeeth centuries, the protomedici of Bologna increasingly assumed authority over diet in the interests of public health. 27. Cagnati 1602, 50–52: Scire igitur licet, ortam esse anno elapso 1601 inter duos Urbis mercatores litem, propterea quod alter ligni sancti, eiusque usitati, magnum satis pondus alteri vendiderat, qui admonitus non esse illud lignum sanctum usitatum, sed sylvestre quoddam ligni genus . . . recusavit dicti ligni pretium . . . ad medicorum collegium res delata est, quod, re diligenter pensata respondit, lignum propositum ligni sancti speciem esse, et ad morbi gallici curationem, ut alia etiam ligni quaedam genera, recipi posse. . . . Sed eo minime contentus emptor, appellavit, quamobrem commissa res est Camerae Apostolicae praesidi, qui medicis extra Collegium celebrioribus, et aromatariis multis convocatis, et singulorum sententiis exquisitis, intellexit venditoris caussam meliorem esse, uno vel altero excepto aromatario, qui emptori favebat. Emptor vero . . . novis oblatis summo Ponti‹ci libellis obtinuit, ut denuo a peritis viris de re eadem ageretur. Itaque nomine Sanctissimi ego, qui Protomedici munere fungerer . . . Collegium convocavi nostrum, et extra Collegium, medicos quotquot addesse vellent, invitavi, et aromatarios, et alios, qui ligni sancti, pro eorum professione, notitiam aliquam habere poterant, quibus omnibus et singulis datus est dicendi locus, et auditi quicumque aliqud dicere voluerunt et illis vero tandem dimissis, Collegium denuo pronuntiavit, et notario mandavit, ut quod actum erat hunc in modo describeret. Facta congregatione in gymnasio Romano, ad quam convenerunt perillustris, et excellentissimus Dominus Iacobus Bonaventura physicus secretus S.D.N. Collegium medicorum, atque medici multi extra Collegium, consules aromatariorum, una cum pluribus aliis aromatariis, atque unus saltem drogherius, ac quidam ex stupharolis vocatis, qui sunt experimentatores ligni sancti fuit


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proposita quaestio: “An lignum, quod dicitur Corradi, sit reale lignum sanctum, ad medicinam adhibendam, nec ne.” On the extensive use and high cost of guiac in sixteenth-century Rome, see Arrizabalaga, Henderson, and French 1997, 187–90. 28. Cagnati 1602, 54–56. Freedberg 2002, 39–40, notes the absence of criteria for making distinctions between species and variety. 29. Bacci 1596, 3.3, p. 93: “familiares nostri Petronius, et Cardanus”; 3.4, p. 94: “Hieronymum Mercurialem, peritissimum haec aetate virum, et familiarem meum”; 4.1, p. 127: “venerandae memoriae hac in urbe Roma Petrus Ciacconus Canonicus Toletanus, atque his Fulvius Ursinus ex Patritiis Romanis summae doctrinae, ac rerum antiquarum studiosissimus.” For Bacci’s correspondence with Aldrovandi, see Simili [1971], which also mentions Bacci’s correspondent in Peru (p. 433). 30. Cagnati 1605, 95. 31. Cagnati 1587, 3.17, p. 236; 4.4, p. 265. Mercati’s Metallotheca was ‹rst published in 1717. 32. Ferrari 1612, 5: “cum astrologia callebat historiam”; Cagnati 1588. On Ferrari (1583–1655), see Freedberg 2002, 38–55. 33. Vittori 1640, no. 32, pp. 103–7. 34. For Vittori’s connections with the Oratorians, attendance on St. Filippo Neri, presence at Neri’s autopsy, and reports on it during Neri’s canonization process, see Incisa Della Rocchetta et al. 1957–63, 1:151–54 no. 40; 2:235–36 no. 229; 2:259–67 no. 241; 3:303–5 no. 334; 4:35–37. Vittori’s separately published treatise on Neri’s autopsy is Vittori 1613. For discussion of his analysis of Neri’s postmortem, see Siraisi 1998. 35. Bacci 1586, 1603. Bacci’s work on the unicorn ‹rst appeared in Italian (Bacci 1573); I have consulted the Latin translation, Bacci 1598. For his opinions on the reality of the unicorn and the prevalence of fake horns, see ibid., proem. See also Rome, Biblioteca Casanatense, MS 57, Andrea Bacci, “De terrestrium rerum natura, terrarum, lapidum, marmorum, metallorum atque gemmarum libri septem” (outline of an un‹nished work). 36. Cagnati 1587, 3.20, pp. 243–59 (Patrizi); 4.5, pp. 268–70 (maps); 4.6, pp. 270–60 (error for 276) (coins); 4.11, pp. 294–309 (silk). The ‹rst edition of this work, in two books, appeared in 1581. 37. Miscellanea curiosa medico-physica Academiae Naturae curiosorum 1670, 4: “Si praxin medicam spectamus nemo fere medicorum, negare audebit, nisi proprio ingenio et authoritate nimium confidat, quantas utilitates a primiceriis medicis editis hactenus observationum praeterint.” A list of of twenty-one authors of observationes follows, Cagnati among them. I am grateful to Gianna Pomata for this reference. Haller 1777, 2:230–31: “Veteres Graecos satis diligenter legit; membranas in Capitolio servatas Hippocratis et aliorum Graecorum comparavit, scriptorum veterum aetates de‹nire studuit, loca emendare, aut vicissim lectionem receptam temere impugnatam defendere. Non recte ubique[.]” 38. Bacci 1716, with phrase quoted at 35. 39. Salviani 1586, +2r–[+2iir]: “Dum typis XII libros de Historia sacra edere mihi erat in animo, cum quatuor aliis de Varia Elementorum Historia, et sex Variae Lectionis Libris, cognovi complures invidos, et malevolos homines . . . me adeo Historiis animum applicuisse dicunt, ut Medicinae studia missa fecerim penitus, et me Medicum

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esse sim oblitus: arbitrantur enim hi homines meas hasce Hystorias [sic] maxima diligentia, diuturnisque lucubrationibus eguisse, ut (cum adeo iuvenis sim, animo percipere non valeant), compositioni harum Hystoriarum, Medicinaeque studiis me operam navare potuisse; quae dum meos labores, diligentiamque meam suo desidiosissimo otio, nimiisque commodis metiuntur, non animadvertunt, tempus quod ipsi in ludis, et somno nimio conterunt, aliisque otiosis, et iucundis oblectationibus, me studiis Hystoriarum semper applicuisse, maxime inde voluptatem percipiens, praeter eas horas, quas propriis Medicinae studiis impendo, quibus multo magis semper incubui, quod ex eo patet, XVI enim annos publice in Almae Urbis Gymnasio Medicinam Theoricam sum professus, in Urbe quocumque tempore Medicinam exerceo, et quam saepissime de Medicis rebus pro aegrotantium curatione cum praestantissimis viris colloquia habeo[.]” My thanks to Elisa Andretta for drawing my attention to this letter. Sallustio Salviani, the son of the better-known Ippolito Salviani, was professor of medicine at the studium urbis from 1570 to 1586 or later; he also attended at Santa Maria della Pietà, known as the “Ospedale de’ Pazzi,” (Andretta 2003–4, 151, 195–96). 40. See chapter 1, note 10 and the section “Peoples, Climate, and History in Airs Waters Places in chapter 2. 41. See Delumeau 1957, 1:223–339; D’Onofrio 1986; Sansa 2002; San Juan 2001, chapter 4; Cof‹n 1991, chapter 3; Pecchiai 1944. 42. On the increased severity of ›ooding, see Di Martino and Belati 1986, 19, 55–81; Delumeau 1957, 1:339–53. Other treatises include I. Castiglione 1599, which draws on Bacci (I owe this reference to Laurent Pinon). For the possible impact on the river of early modern population increase and multiplication of water mills, together with an overview of proposals and efforts to moderate ›oods, see Buonora 2003. Buonora emphasizes a division between eruditi who looked to antiquity for remedies and more practically oriented engineers. 43. Bacci 1571, 1.9, pp. 22–25. 44. See note 1 to this chapter. The theme of the dangers of cold drinks goes back to antiquity. 45. Bacci 1599. Vatican City, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Aldine II 98, Andrea Bacci, letter on ›ooding to Clement VIII, in ten unnumbered MS fols. bound in the front of the printed volume Del Tevere . . . libri tre (Venice, 1576), at 1v: “lungo studio ch’ho fatto in questa materia ne’ i libri delle Therme, e del Tevere.” This work may have been intended as a draft of part of book 4 of Del Tevere. Its date must fall between Clement VIII’s accession in 1592 and Bacci’s death in 1600. I am grateful to Pamela Long for calling my attention to this manuscript. 46. Bacci 1576, dedicatory letter. 47. Modio 1556, 4v–6v. The De aquis urbis Romae of Frontinus (‹rst century CE) became known to humanists in the ‹fteenth century and was printed in several late ‹fteenth- and early sixteenth-century editions. 48. Bacci 1576, book 2, pp. 91–96. 49. Bacci 1576, book 3, pp. 251–55. At 254: “in pochissime hore fece la più parte di Roma navigabile.” The list of historic ›oods continues until 259. 50. Bacci 1576, book 3, pp. 259–69, with references to inscriptions at 268, 269. 51. Bacci 1576, book 3, p. 269. On the remedies proposed, including Bacci’s, see D’Onofrio 1980, 311ff.


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52. Bacci 1576, book 3, p. 270: “Io credo, et tengo per certo, che tutte le volte, che ei si partiranno dallo stile, che gli antichi tennero ordinariamente in questa cura, sempre s’ingannerannno a partito.” See Buonora 2003 on the different kinds of advice offered. 53. Bacci 1576, book 3, pp. 283–85: “Quarto rimedio, di far un’argine al Tevere, ad imitatione di Aureliano Imperatore.” The reference to Cosimo is at 284–85. 54. Bacci 1576, book 3, pp. 302–8. At 302: “Io racconterò quivi una historia non letta altrove, ma cavata dal vero senso delle memorie antiche, e dal sito, e dalla natura di quel lago.” See Cicero Ad Atticum 4.15. 55. Bacci 1576, book 3, pp. 288–89: “però ritorniamo a concludere, e tener per una massima, che sia impossibile a potervi totalmente rimediare. . . . Et però si conviene di fare a guisa del buon medico, il quale usa ben diligenza di ritrovar tutte le cause della malatia, e li rimedii appropriati; con tutto questo nella cura s’attiene più all’esperienza.” Ibid. 290–96. 56. Cagnati 1599b, with De Tiberis inundatione at 1–22; Cagnati 1599a. 57. Cagnati 1599b, 1–22. 58. Cagnati 1599a, 21: “aegritudines nec frequentius, nec perniciosius in urbe, quam alibi grassantur.” The list of epidemics occupies 21–24. 59. Cagnati 1587, 4.8, p. 264 (bis; misprint for 280). The chapter continues until 268 (bis; misprint for 284). On sixteenth-century efforts to reconstruct the chronology of ancient history, see McCuaig 1991. 60. See note 1 to this chapter. On the diversity of peoples and occupations in the city, see Petroni 1581, 3.25, p. 164 (Petroni 1592, 196); Delumeau 1957. For the substantial Spanish presence and political and cultural in›uence in sixteenth-century Rome, see Dandelet 2001. 61. Vatican City, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, MS Vat. Lat. 6319, Alessandro Traiano Petroni, De victus ratione in conclavi manentium, anno MDXLVIII, mense decembri. Ad reverendissimum Illustrissimum Cardinalem de Salviatis dominum et patronum suum observandissimum. Paul III (r. 1534–49) died November 10, 1549, and the conclave that elected Julius III began on November 29, 1549. 62. Petroni 1581, book 2, pp. 31–76 (Petroni 1592, 35–90), is on water and wine; for the eating habits of foreigners in Rome, see Petroni 1581, 3.25, p. 164 (Petroni 1592, 196). According to Carafa 1751, 2:359, Sallustio Salviani strongly disapproved of Petroni’s treatise and planned to refute it. On dearth in Rome and the attempts of the papacy and city magistrates to ensure the grain supply, see Delumeau 1957, 1:592–625; Reinhardt 1991. 63. Cagnati 1591a. 64. Cagnati also addressed the medicinal uses of wine, defending the practice of Roman physicians who permitted or prescribed it in fevers; see Cagnati 1601, 40–44. 65. Bacci 1596, book 3, preface, pp. 88–90. 66. Bacci 1596, 1.8, p. 12. 67. See, for example, Bacci 1596, 1.31–32, pp. 47–51, on containers for wine. 68. Bacci 1596, book 4, preface, p. 129: “Hic brevis index est communium partium Convivii tractandarum, inter quas complura passim alia ad tantum ritum pertinentia venient consideranda scitu dignissima, ac explicanda auctorum loca innumera, quare primum a communi vitae consuetudine illorum temporum, et quibus actionibus homo Romanus dispensaret diei horas, aut comederent [sic].” 69. For example, Bacci 1596, book 4, pp. 130–43, 150–64, 187–95.

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70. Bacci 1596, book 4, p. 144. He seems to have drawn some of his information from Fulvio Orsini’s very learned appendix to Chacon 1588, despite his disagreement with Chacon’s conclusions (see discussion later in this chapter): compare Chacon 1588, 116; Bacci 1596, book 4, part 1, p. 141, on “coenatoria vestes.” 71. Bacci 1596, book 4, pp. 144–47. 72. See chapter 1, “Girolamo Mercuriale and Greco-Roman Physical Culture” and note 98; Chacon 1588; Blunt 1938–39. On Chacon, see Ruiz 1976 (I owe this reference to William Stenhouse). 73. Bacci 1596, book 4, p. 148: “Et tandem quid magis detestabile putandum Christianae pietati, ut quemadmodum rite tanti mysterii iubemur imitari solemnia, sic in throno accumbentes sanctissimam celebraremus coenam? . . . Ut contemplari videar Apostolos humiliter alterum secus alterum in communi mensa, et in conspectu aeque domini consedisse omnes: non autem lectis accumberent, quod gentibus proprium, et nimis deliciosum, non vulgari exemplo ostendit Plutarchus auctoritate Catonis, quem testatur post rem in Pharsalia infeliciter gestam, nunquam accubantem, sed sedentem sumpsisse cibum, luctus causa.” 74. Bacci 1596, book 4, p. 148: “Pro hac vero nostri temporis mediocritate, cum honestissimas habeamus nostrorum principum mensas, in hac praecipue Romana curia frugales videmus, et mediocri splendore laudabiles, atque eas quidem commodissimas.” On cardinals’ households in the sixteenth century, see Fragnito 1993; Antonovics 1972. 75. Bacci 1596, book 4, pp. 148–49; the recipe for “Oglia poderida in mensis Hispanicis inclyta” and the “Chorus gratiarum convivialium” are on 165–67. 76. On Ascanio Colonna, see F. Petrucci, “Colonna, Ascanio,” DBI 27:275–78. A contemporary quoted in Fragnito 1993, 41, remarked approvingly that Cardinal Ascanio “lived with much splendor,” although Antonovics 1972, 324–25, notes that the cardinal had to scale back in 1590. 77. I have consulted the third edition, Bacci 1567. Another contemporary example of a similar combination of medical, natural historical, and antiquarian interest in thermal springs emerges from the concern of both the Venetian government and the Paduan medical faculty for the Terme Euganee (Bodon 2005, 219–26). Thanks to William Stenhouse for this reference. 78. See Park 1999. 79. Bacci 1571, 4.1, p. 190: “Imo si ipsae rerum facultates absolute sumantur, et non considerentur in temperamento cum aquis; non possunt de eis ‹eri verae demonstrationes . . . quam ob rem tantopere necessarium est singulares earum historias scribere.” 80. Bacci 1571, table of contents: “In IIII [libro] qui Thermeusis inscribitur conscribuntur historiae thermarum sulphurearum . . . balnearum historiae singulares CXXII. . . . In V libro qui est Mineralis, describuntur historiae aquarum mineralium . . . historiae singulares ICX. . . . In VI libro, qui est Metallicus, describuntur historiae ex metallis . . . historiae singulares balnearum et fontium CLXIII.” 81. Bacci 1571, 4.11, p. 262, Georgius Vernherus; 5.4, p. 282, Reychersdorff; 4.3, p. 194, and 5.4, p. 280, Varthema and Cadamusto; 4.7, p. 227, Bartholomaeus Burgundius (Barthélemy de Chasseneuz, ca. 1480–1541). I cite the works referred to in the editions that I consulted: G. Werner (Georg Werner, ›. 1505) 1551; Reicherstorffer [Reychersdorff] 1550; Varthema 1991 (‹rst published Rome, 1510); Ca da Mosto (Alvise Ca da


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Mosto, 1432–88) 1966; Chasseneuz 1571, 12.18, 257v. On Aachen, Bacci 1571, 4.10, p. 247, cites Ruremundanus 1564. 82. Bacci 1571, 4, p. 256. 83. Bacci 1571, 7.7, p. 448. Onofrio Panvinio also knew Mercuriale’s as yet unpublished work on gymnastica in manuscript (Ferrary 1996, 130). The title page of Bacci 1571 describes the work as “non solum medicis necessarium, verum etiam studiosis variarum rerum naturae perutile.” 84. Bacci 1571, 7.5, p. 441: “Quare nos dum haec aliqua ex parte revocare in lucem intendimus, et quae usui maxime medico opportuna sunt, exponere.” 85. Bacci 1571, 7.3–6, pp. 432–46. 86. Bacci 1571, 7.12, p. 459: “De ritibus vero in eis, atque ordine se exercentium, ac lavationum, haud mirum est haec instituta semper maiorem habuisse progressum; si consideremus non solum hinc vitae elegantiam eos servare consuevisse, sanitatem, et robur corporis; sed quod maius est in republica emolumentum”; the passage goes on to explain that exercise also strengthens young men for military service. The denunciation of decadence at the baths is found at ibid., 7.14, pp. 464–66. 87. Bacci 1571, 7.17, pp. 472–74. 88. Bacci 1571, 7.18, p. 474. The entire chapter (to 477) is a discussion of private, domestic baths. 89. Mercuriale 2006, 1.3, pp. 21–29. 90. Marsilio Cagnati, Fumanellus, seu dialogus de gymnastica, in Cagnati 1605 (an enlarged edition of Cagnati 1591a), 94r–133r. 91. Marsilio Cagnati, Epidemia Romana, in Cagnati 1599b, 25–73. At 25: “Ut ad rempublicam bene gerendam Historia conducit plurimum; quae idcirco sapienter magistra vitae dicta est; sic quoque ad valetudinem curandam utilissima est. Quod Hippocratis exemplo satis docemur, a quo, non temere historias Epidemicas descriptas, existimare, consentaneum est.” 92. Bacci 1583. Bacci’s interlocutors in this controversy were Marco Oddi, a professor at the University of Padua (with whose De componendis medicamentis et aliorum diiudicandis methodus exactissima, et dilucidissima Bacci’s work was printed), and Antonio Porta, a practitioner in Rome. 93. Bacci 1586, 69. The narrative of the case occupies 68–71, the analysis 71–81. Compare note 25 to the present chapter. 94. Cagnati 1591b, 22–23; the case histories are dated between November 1584 and July 1590. 95. Cagnati, Epidemia Romana, in Cagnati 1599b, 31: “velut Heraclides, qui decumbebat apud Aristocydem: nam huic et ex naribus sanguis erupit, et alvus turbata est, et per vesicam purgatus est. Haec autem, de illo Heraclide dicta, Oliverio cuidam nobili Gallo ad unguem evenisse, ipse testari potest, qui vivit, et bene valet.” Compare Hippocrates Epidemics 1.15. 96. Cagnati, Epidemia Romana, in Cagnati 1599b, 25–26: “Novere historiae utilitatem iam nostri saeculi auctores multi, quorum studium mea ego quidem caussa primum imitatus, in aegritudinibus; quae mihi, iam annos duos ultra triginta medicinam facienti, sese obtulerunt; describendis, et examinandis, non parum laboris ac temporis consumpsi. Sed deinde visum est, si eius studii specimen et laboris aliquod in lucem ederem, hoc posse medendi scientiae studiosis commodum aliquod afferre. Eoque consilio unius, vel alterius popularis aegritudinis examen praebeo.”

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97. Cagnati 1603, 10: “il Cardinale s’era molte volte, e in sanità, e nella stessa infermità dichiarato, di haver concetto fermo, che li medici tengano gli’amalati per ispediti quando dimandaro compagnia d’altri medici.” 98. See note 34 to this chapter. 99. Some examples are Vittori 1640, no. 11, pp. 36–37 (seasickness); no. 24, pp. 85–86, “An idem homo possit esse in quibusdam sapiens, in aliis vero insipiens”; no. 81, pp. 287–99 (Hippocrates and pulse). 100. For example, Vittori 1640, no. 15, pp. 48–52. 101. Vittori 1640, no. 70, pp. 240–54: “Historia iuvenis extincti variolis notata ab auctore dum medicinam faceret sub disciplina Alexander Petronii, ubi et describitur ratio curandi variolas, et exemplar observandi progressum morborum accurate proponitur.” 102. Schenck 1584, proem, [ ):( 6v–): ( 7r]. The passage is noted and discussed in Pomata 2005, 134. 103. Vittori 1640, no. 82, pp. 299–379: “Ad medicum, qui assumpto gradu doctoratus, erat in patriam reversurus. Ubi diffuse ostenditur via qua iuveni arte medica instructo ad illam exercendam progrediendum sit.” 104. Vittori 1640, no. 82, p. 299: “Scientiae in nostra mente sint velut tibia in manu tibicinis: quare sicut nesciens modulari . . . inutiliter tibiam possideret. . . .” 105. Vittori 1640, no. 82, pp. 316–27. 106. Vittori 1640, no. 82, p. 342: “Quid agendum cum domum redieris.” 107. Vittori 1640, no. 32, p. 103; no. 74, p. 264. 108. Vittori 1640. The section on miracles is placed at the end of the volume, with its own brief introduction (pp. 380–81); consultationes 83–98 (pp. 381–449), concern miracles of healing attributed to intercession of saints (nos. 83–87, Loyola; nos. 88–94, Xavier; nos. 95–97, Neri; no. 98, Diego). The treatise on Neri’s autopsy, not numbered among the consultationes, occupies pages 415–43. 109. Two of the miracles attributed to Loyola that are discussed by Vittori correspond to those included in the canonization process. Compare Vittori 1640, no. 85, pp. 387–88, with Acta Sanctorum Julii 1731, 7:617, no. 1086 (Magdalena Talavera/Valavera) and Relatio . . . super vita . . . Beati Ignatii 1644, 39, no. 4 (cure dated 1601); Vittori 1640, no. 87, pp. 390–91, with Acta Sanctorum Julii 1731, 7:617, no. 1083 (Isabella Rebelles) and Relatio . . . super vita . . . Beati Ignatii 1644, 35, no. 1 (cure dated 1564). These cures presumably occurred in Barcelona and Gandia (Valencia), the places with which the women are identi‹ed. 110. His procedure seems to have been very similar to that of Paolo Zacchia, who also gave testimony both in secular legal cases involving accusations of murder and in canonization processes. See the consilia and responsa included in Zacchia 1651, book 9, Consilia et responsa XXXIV ad materias medico-legales pertinentia, nos. 1–10, pp. 659–80 (miracles); nos. 12–16, pp. 682–92 (criminal cases).

chapter 6 1. For example, Lazius 1557. On Lazius (1514–65) and his works, see further discussion later in the present chapter. 2. The bio-bibliographies of physicians in Adam 1705 (medical section ‹rst published 1620) and P. Freher 1688 include many such works.


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3. On Benedetti, see Ferrari 1996 and the preface to part 2 of the present book. On Giovio, see Zimmerman 1995a (with an account of Giovio’s medical training, career, and writings at pp. 8–19) and the introduction to the present book. 4. Soll 2002. 5. Pinon 2005, 251–53. 6. On interpretation of signs in medicine, see Maclean 2002, especially 276–332. 7. See chapter 2, “Peoples, Climate, and History in Airs Waters Places” and notes 118–20. 8. Rossi 1572. On the characteristics of this and other sixteenth-century histories of Italian cities, see Cochrane 1981a, 284–92; on Rossi, see Biographie universelle (Paris, 1811–28), 39:44–45. Thanks to Vivian Nutton for drawing my attention to Rossi’s work. Borel 1656; Borel 1649, A4r–v: “Et si tu trouves estrange qu’un medecin se soit occupé à ce travail sçache que Cardan, Goropius Becanus, et Achilles Gassarus [i.e., Achilles Pirmin Gasser, 1505–77], medecins tres-celebres, en ont fait autant pour Milan, Anvers, et Augsbourg, villes de leur naissance.” I have not seen Borel’s Tresor de recherches et antiquitez gauloises et françoises reduites en ordre alphabetique (Paris: A. Courbé, 1655). On Borel, see Eduard Farber, “Borel, Pierre,” DSB 2:305. 9. Johannis Cuspiniani, viri clarissimi poetae et medici, ac divi Maximiliani Augusti oratoris, De Caesaribus atque Imperatoribus Romanis Opus insigne ([Strasbourg], 1540); I have consulted the second edition, Cuspinianus 1561, and Cuspinianus [1553], with which was also printed his Austria cum omnibus eiusdem marchionibus, ducibus, archducibus ac rebus praeclare ad haec usque tempora ab iisdem gestis. Cuspinianus died in 1529. On the publication history of his works, see Ankwicz-Kleehoven 1959, 265–91. 10. For a very detailed account of Cuspinianus and a full bibliography of his works, see Ankwicz-Kleehoven 1959. See also D. Weiss 1990; NDB 3:450–52. The earliest biography of Cuspinianus is that by Nicolaus Gerbelius Phorcensis, dated 1540 and included in the front matter of Cuspinianus 1561, 24–27. 11. Ankwicz-Kleehoven 1959, 9–46. Cuspinianus also taught in the Vienna town school from 1497 to 1500. 12. On the early history of the University of Vienna, see Kink 1854; Aschbach 1865–88; Uiblein 1999; Böhm 1952, 33–49; Shank 1988. 13. Uiblein 1978. 14. Strnad 1996, with the account of Aeneas’s participation in the disputation on 81–82; Grössing 1985. Mathematicians and astronomers who taught at Vienna included Johannes of Gmunden (d. 1442), Peurbach (1423–61), and Regiomontanus (1436–76). 15. Ankwicz-Kleehoven 1959, 9, 29; Maisel 1995. On astrology at the court and the university and in relation to medicine at Vienna, with much information about Grünpeck and his historical and astrological explanation of the onset of Morbus gallicus, see Hayton 2004, chapters 2–4. 16. Strauss 1959, 1–60. Before he acceded to the papacy as Pius II in 1458, Aeneas Sylvius resided in the German lands for over twenty years. In addition to depicting Germany in his correspondence and geographical writings, he was the author of a work on the life and reign of Frederick III as well as of a descriptive account of Germany. On German humanist historiography, see Joachimsen 1910; Joachimsen 1970; Borchardt 1971; Schellhase 1976, 31–65; Hirstein 1995. On the reception of Tacitus more generally, see the works cited in the present volume in chapter 1, note 125. On the interest of Ger-

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man humanists in geography and their reaction to New World discoveries, see Wuttke 1992. 17. On Celtis (1459–1508), see Bezold 1959 (‹rst published 1883); Spitz 1957; Wuttke 1980. On the Germania illustrata project, see Ridé 1979. On Aventinus and Vadianus, see Strauss 1963; Baker 1996; Bietenholz 1987. Vadianus was also a pupil of Cuspinianus (Ankwicz-Kleehoven 1959, 100). 18. See Joachimsen 1910, 196–200; Tanner 1993. 19. See Spitz 1957, 56–58; Machilek 1996, 149. Core members of the Danube Sodality included the theologian and mathematician Andreas Stiborius; the mathematician, astrologer, historian, and royal adviser Johannes Stabius; the jurist Hieronymus Balbus; and the physician Bartholmaeus Stäber. After Celtis’s death in 1508, the sodality continued for a time under the leadership of the mathematician, physician, and astrologer Collimitius (Georg Tannstetter), on whom see Stuhlhofer 1996. 20. Ankwicz-Kleehoven 1948, 212. 21. He owned a manuscript of Ficino’s Commentarii in Platonis convivium de amore; see Trenkler 1980, 89. For his correspondents, see Cuspinianus 1933; letter 2 (December 28, 1502), pp. 2–10, is addressed to Aldus; other well-known humanist correspondents include Joachim Vadian, Johann Reuchlin, Willibald Pirckheimer, and Romolo Amaseo. Cuspinianus’s relations with Celtis (whose funeral oration he delivered) and his visit to Trithemius are described in Ankwicz-Kleehoven 1959, 16–18, 23–24, 43–44. Cranach painted a double portrait of Cuspinianus and his ‹rst wife, Anna Putsch, which is replete with astrological and other symbolism. For discussion of these portraits and their iconography, the meaning of which is debated, see Ankwicz-Kleehoven 1959, 29–36; Koepplin 1973, reviewed in Silver 1976. 22. Cuspinianus 1933, letter 61 (Ulrich Fabri to Cuspinianus’s son Sebastian, 1517), p. 182. Cuspinianus also had a substantial library of printed books, a large part of which eventually entered the Österreichische Nationalbibliothek; see Ankwicz-Kleehoven 1948; Ankwicz-Kleehoven 1957, H, pp. 119–33. 23. Ankwicz-Kleehoven 1957, G. 118, pp. 115–16: “quam necessaria sit orbis terre cognitio studiosis omnibus sive philosophie sive musis sive sacratioribus literis studeamus”; see I. 2 and 6, pp. 314–15, for the two editions of Dionysius’s poem in Latin translation that Cuspinian published, presumably for the bene‹t of his students, in 1494 and 1508. See also Ankwicz-Kleehoven 1959, 13, 44. 24. See note 21 to this chapter. 25. At any rate, this is the date suggested for one of the items in his own hand in Ankwicz-Kleehoven 1957, G. 117, p. 294, note 2. 26. ÖNB, MS 4772, medical miscellany; I am most grateful to Thomas Rütten for drawing my attention to this manuscript and lending me a micro‹lm of it. For descriptions, see Tabulae codicum manu scriptorum 1864–99, 3:382–83; Wissenschaft im Mittelalter 1975, no. 269, pp. 286–87. According to the latter, fols. 58r–109r, 212r–239r, and possibly 291r–358r are in Cuspinianus’s hand. Among the items included are the letter of Vindicianus to Pentadius (fols. 75v–76v; see Thorndike and Kibre 1965, 829; on the fourth- to ‹fth-century physician Vindicianus, see Bibliographie des textes médicaux latins 1987, 154–57); the seventh- or eighth-century Carmen medicinale of Benedictus Crispus, of which this is one of only four known manuscripts (fols. 141v–147v; see Stannard 1966); and excerpts from Columella’s De cultura hortorum carmen (fols. 184r–194r).


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27. ÖNB MS 4772, fols. 58r–62r, “Cuspinianus studiosis medicinae. . . . Vita Hippocratis per Cuspinianum collecta” (see Fischer 1929, with edition of the text at 1458–61); fols. 62v–63r, Oath of Hippocrates, in Latin translation, here attributed to Pier Paolo Vergerio (on this Latin translation, attributed in most manuscripts to Niccolo Perotti [d. 1480], see Rütten 1996); fols. 63v–70v, “Dic michi puer . . .” (poem on King Perdiccas [? by Cuspinianus]; on the sources of the Perdiccas story, see Pinault 1992, 61–77); fols. 71r–v, supposed epistle of Hippocrates to Ptolemy, De microcosmo, in Latin translation (pace Kibre 1985, 153, this does not appear to be the same as the Latin translation by Johann Reuchlin published as Hippocrates, De praeparatione hominis, ad Ptolemaeum regem, nuper e graeco in latinum traductus a Ioanne Reuchlin [Tübingen, 1512]); fols. 72r–75r, versi‹ed version of preceding item; fols. 79v–83r, Cuspinianus, introduction to his lectures on same text and to the life of Hippocrates (edited in Ankwicz-Kleehoven 1957, G. 117, p. 114); fols. 96r–103r, another version of the life of Hippocrates, inc. “Hippocrates medicus nationis”; fols. 105r–106r, the Hippocratic Oath in Greek; fol. 107r, fragment of the Oath in Greek; fols. 108v–109r, the Oath in Latin, translation again attributed to Vergerio. 28. ÖNB MS 4772, Cuspinianus “Vita Hippocratis,” fol. 58v: “Sed iam vitam eius [sc. Hippocratis] attendite, ubi si non omnia, multa certe pro viribus afferam”; fol. 59v: “Et ut parum digrediar fere similis historia et iucundissima legitur in Apiano Alexandrino in eo libro, qui Syrius inscribitur, de Seleuco rege, Antiocho ‹lio, qui Stratonicem amabat, et Erasistrato medico.” For the ancient versions of the story as applied to Antiochus and Erasistratus, including that by Appian, see Pinault 1992, 63–66. 29. Marbode of Rennes 1511, ar. 30. Edition of Cuspinianus’s commentary, with German translation, in Cuspinianus 1983, with Cuspinianus’s remarks on engraved images, seals, and incantations at 21–23; see Leonardi 2002 (the preface to this work, which is dedicated to Cesare Borgia, is dated 1502). 31. Cuspinianus [1515]. 32. On Lazius, see further discussion later in this chapter. For the in›uence of Crato at the court of Maximilian II, see Louthan 1997, 85–105; P. Fichtner 2001, 101–3. 33. Cuspinianus 1933, letter 12 (October 23, 1511), pp. 25–27, and letter 16 (April 16, 1512), pp. 33–37, mention the effect on his practice. Letter 16 and letter 14 (to Johann Reuchlin, April 6, 1512), pp. 28–30, show that he was by then already engaged with the histories of the Roman consuls and the Roman emperors and other rulers that occupied him, on and off, for the rest of his life (see further discussion later in the present chapter). 34. Cuspinianus [1553], 578: “En aspice candide lector, quanto labore et quanto studio hos tibi consules congesserim, qui tot seculis latuerunt. Unicum habui Cassiodori exemplar, quod meus Stabius, homi acerrimi ingenii, mihi attulit: et id plerisque in locis mutilum, ac pene abrasum fuit. Habui et Consules cuiusdam ignoti autoris, quem tandem reperi, et vetustissima quaedam Chronica, quibus item Consules continebantur. Hos omnes contuli: et quos praeterea apud Plinium, Livium, Diodorum Siculum, Dionysium, Orosium, Eutropium, Ioannem Monachum, Jornandem, Bedam, passim comperi, citra invidiam adduxi: quosque et in iure civili, ac in saxis et vetustissimis monumentis legi. Tu si idem feceris, pauci credo supererunt, quos desiderabis, et bona pars Livii restituetur. Duos tantum habeo oculos, quibus haec investigavi. Tu lector et

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tuum adiunge laborem huic meo, ut ‹at perfectior. Multa fortasse videbis, quae me superunt.” 35. The Fasti were discovered in 1546–47; for their impact on antiquarian scholarship, see McCuaig 1991; Stenhouse 2005a, 103–12. 36. Cuspinianus 1561, 1–2, 601–15. At 603: “Primus enim inter omnes Principes nostra aetate, singulorum genealogias indagavit, missis per Italiam, Franciam, et Germaniam nunciis, qui omnia coenobia, omnes bibliothecas, omnia archiva Principum disquirerent, evolverent, ac perscrutarentur. Atque ob id Annales singularum provinciarum, qui situ delitescebant ac squalore, tineis absumebantur, eius opera revixerunt et in lucem commigrarunt. . . . In medicinis saepe magna quaedam experimenta exhibuit.” 37. Cuspinianus 1561, 119: “Caeterum de eius donatione [sc. of Constantine] satis eleganter Laurentius Valla et ex ‹de conscripsit”; 215: “Qui enim imperium tradunt a Graecis ad Gallos, a Gallis ad Germanos translatum, inepte illi ac nimium delirant. Nunquam enim Galli imperium obtinuerunt: sed Francis quidem datum est et primum Carolo Magno Franco, qui nunquam Gallus fuit, sed Francus: et in ea quidem parte Franciae ubi semper Germani habitarunt, genitus”; 421 (of Gregory IX and Frederick II): “vicarius Christi (ut sese vocat) . . . multaque portentosa, Ponti‹ce et vicario Christi indigna facit. Dum Imperator oves Christi, ne a lupo discerpantur, ense suo tutatur ac defendit, Pontifex radit, deglubit et devorat sa[n]g[u]inatas.” For an example of the opposite argument about Charlemagne see the preface to Part 2 of this volume and note 11 thereto. 38. Ankwicz-Kleehoven 1959, 309–22, identi‹es the sources used in the German medieval section of the Caesares. For Cuspinianus’s publication plans for and defense of medieval writers of history, see Otto of Freising 1515, Aaiiir. Konrad Peutinger and Johannes Stabius were responsible for the ‹rst edition (Augsburg, 1515) of De rebus Gothorum by Jordanes (or Iornandes). 39. See Ankwicz-Kleehoven 1959, 110–17 and, for the negotiations over the Zonaras manuscript, 120–24. Cuspinianus was not the ‹rst Western historian to make use of the chronicle of Zonaras, which was also known to Giovanni Battista Egnazio, author of De caesaribus libri III (Egnazio 1516), the second book of which is devoted to the lives of Byzantine emperors. But Cuspianianus’s use of the work was much more extensive; see Joachimsen 1910, 210. 40. Cuspinianus 1561, 538–601. For examples of citations of Filelfo, see 547, 579; of Pius II’s life of Frederick III, 561. At 538–39: “Inveni autem (ne illud quoque praeteream imprudens) opusculum cuiusdam fratris ex Hungariae oppido Schebesch, quod lingua Germanica Mulenbach cognominatur, qui post obitum Sigismundi Imperatoris, Amurathe Turcarum rege Hungariam irrumpente, captus puer sedicem annorum, et viginti annis ac duobus in Turcia serviens, omnemque eorum ediscens ritum ac morem vivendi, liber factus, monachum egit, ac de ritibus eorum opusculum a se scriptum reliquit.” Other recent sources named for the Turkish material include Platina and Sabellicus. On the writings of Filelfo on the Turks, see Black 1985, 229, with bibliography. The section of Cuspinianus’s Caesares on the Turks was also published separately as De Turcorum origine, religione, ac immanissima eorum in Christianos tyrannide (Antwerp, 1541), with another edition coming from Leiden in 1654. 41. Cuspinianus 1933, letter 52 (to Willibald Pirckheimer, November 25, 1526), p. 164: “Imagines caesarum omnes non sunt excisae hactenus, quia caremus arti‹cibus.


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Sed hanc partem reliquam excudendam reservavi tibi et tuo Achati Alberto Durer, facile huius artis principi.” Nothing came of this plan. 42. Cuspinianus 1933, letter 53 (to Bernard Cles, bishop of Trent, December 1525), pp. 166–67, dedicatory letter to Oratio protreptica Ioannis Cuspiniani ad sacr. Ro. Imp. Principes et proceres, ut bellum suscipiant contra Turcos, cum descriptione con›ictus nuper in Hungaria facti, quo periit rex Hungariae Ludovicus; letter 55 (January 1, 1527), p. 170, letter to the reader, Catalogus caesarum ac imperatorum augustorum occidentalium. 43. Ankwicz-Kleehoven 1959, 278. 44. On the history of the University of Vienna between the 1520s and 1560s, see Aschbach 1865–88, vol. 3; Kink 1854, 1:231–308; Maisel 1995; Mühlberger 1995. On the reign of Ferdinand I and the problems faced by that ruler, see P. Fichtner 1982. On the impact of the arrival of the Jesuits, see Müller 1991. 45. Kink 1854, 1:255–78; Ferdinand’s reform edicts are edited at 2:331–39, 346–60, 373–401 (nos. 54, 58, 62). 46. Kink 1854, 2:356–57: “Historicus. Sol interPretiern allweg di Pesten vnnd vermertisten Alten geschichte schreiber. Als da is Salustius. T. Livius. Commentaria Cesaris. Q. Curtius. C. Tacitus. Vallerius Maximus. Vetruuius de Architectura. Frontini Stratagemata. Er sol daneben auch sui temporis Annales schreiben, das die geschichten vnnserer Zeiten den nachkumenden auch bekhanndt werden.” The 1554 statute reads, “Literarum Politicarum Professorem qui historiarum Lectionem cum Poesi coniungat” (ibid., 2:382). 47. D. Cornarius 1565, 11. 48. On Lazius’s biography and bibliography, see, in addition to D. Cornarius 1565, Kauz [Khautz] 1755, 143–83; Aschbach 1865–88, 3:205–33; Mayer 1911, 5–16; NDB 14:14–15. Lazius referred to his own participation as an army doctor in his account of Ferdinand’s campaign against the Turks in Hungary (ÖNB MS 7688, fols. 125r–139v, Lazius’s account of the Buda campaign). 49. See Acta facultatis medicae universitatis Vindobonensis 1894–1912, vols. 3 and 4, for many entries concerning Wolfgang Lazius between the years 1530 (3:176) and 1565 (4:68: notice of his death). Other entries concern his father, Simon Latz (or Lazius), who also taught at Vienna. 50. See Trenkler 1978, 187; Mayer 1911, 7. 51. D. Cornarius 1565, 3: “optime et pacis, et belli tempore de multis aegrotis sua scientia, ‹delitate et benevolentia meritus.” A letter from Lazius to the bishop of Vienna—ÖNB MS 8457, fol. 2 (inc. “Reverendiss. patri ac domino Dno. Friderico dei gratia episcopo Fabianensi seu Vindobonennsi . . . Wuolph. Lazius Vindobonnensis”)—includes some medical advice; the text of the letter is edited and tentatively dated 1538 in Chmel 1840–41, 1:676–78. 52. Acta facultatis medicae universitatis Vindobonensis 1894–1912, 3:266, 1554 (visitation of hospital); NDB 14:14 (personal physician to Ferdinand, “magister sanitatis”); Trenkler 1978, 187 (date of appointment as court historian). 53. ÖNB MS 11229, medical miscellany ending in miscellaneous recipes, some attributed to Vienna MDs; fol. 570r, “Morselli de ordinatione D D Lazii pro phlegmate” (some other anonymous recipes on the same folio may also be by Lazius). ÖNB MS 9472, fols. 15r–29r, “De artis medicae praestantia et antiquitate declamatio Wolfgangi Lazii Viennae medici Caesaris.” Also see note 51 to the present chapter. 54. By 1545, Lazius had already assembled a substantial collection of inscriptions

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and manuscripts, which he described in a letter to Beatus Rhenanus; see Rhenanus 1966 (facsimile of 1886 edition), letter 401, pp. 540–44. According to Mayr 1894, 38, Lazius had completed a work on Hungary, a work on Transylvania, and two works on Austria by 1544 (all of which remain in manuscript—see further discussion later in the present chapter). 55. Mayer 1911, 7, notes that Lazius’s annual salary as court historian was 200 gulden per year, whereas the professor of medical theory and the professor of medical practice—both positions held by Lazius held at different times—earned respectively 120 and 150 gulden per year. According to Aschbach 1865–88, 3:213, Lazius’s salary as historian was 300 gulden in 1554. Ferdinand also named him a royal councillor and gave him a patent of nobility. 56. Acta facultatis medicae universitatis Vindobonensis 1894–1912, 3:281–86. In 1556 Lazius was dean of the faculty for the sixth time. 57. So Trenkler 1978, 187, suggests, though noting that Lazius was collecting historical materials from 1541 onward. 58. See Joachimsen 1910, 200–201. The post of historicus or historiographus seems to have been created by Maximilian I (ibid., 199). NDB 17:83–85, s.v. “Mennel”; Guenther 1987; Hayton 2004, chapters 2 and 4. On Ursinus Velius, appointed historiographer by Ferdinand I in 1527, see Erbe and Bietenholz 1987. 59. For the beginning of Lazius’s historical interests, see notes 54 and 57 to this chapter. On Beatus Rhenanus and his context, see Scarpatetti 1985, with bibliography there cited; Joachimsen 1910, 105–54; Hirstein 2000. Lazius referred to his correspondence with Beatus Rhenanus in the letter cited in note 51 in the present chapter, tentatively dated 1538. Rhenanus 1966, letter 401 (Lazius to Beatus Rhenanus), pp. 540–44. At 540: “Binas a te uno statim mense Aug. literas accepi, praeceptor observantissime[.]” For Beatus Rhenanus’s reply, see letter 423, pp. 564–68. 60. Rhenanus 1966, letter 401 (Lazius to Beatus Rhenanus), p. 540: “nulla alia ratione adductum, hoc genus studiorum operibus artis nostrae (quam omnes nostro seculo in questum conferunt) coniunxisse quam ut patrios annales tot nugis refertos veritatis fundamentis aliquando constitutos haberemus.” 61. On Herberstein, or Herberstain, see NDB 8:579–80, s.v. “Herberstein, Sigmund Freiherr von.” The ‹rst edition of Herberstein’s Rerum Moscoviticarum commentarii was published in Vienna in 1549. Lazius’s letter to Oporinus is included in the front matter of the second edition, Herberstein 1551. On the wide and long-lasting in›uence of this work, see Gross 1991. For Herberstein’s gift to Lazius of the Rupescissa transcript, see Lazius 1547, Hvv; for Lazius’s interest in prophecy, see further discussion later in the present chapter. 62. Rhenanus 1966, letter 401 (Lazius to Beatus Rhenanus), p. 541: “Ad quae Brassicanus extemplo (ut est impuro ore ac qui veterem hominem plane exuit) subridens ac cum cachinno: Stulte ac absurde, inquit, ratiocinaris[.]” On Brassicanus (1509–49), see NDB 2:537. 63. ÖNB MS 7688, Wolfgang Lazius, “Decadis quintae rerum Austriacarum liber” I[–IV] book 1, fol. 94r: “. . . superiorum annorum res gestas Caspar Velius Ursinus antecessor meus in suis fragmentis prolixe ac diserte tractatvit[.]” 64. On the dispute with Strada, see Louthan 1997, 27–30. On Strada as antiquarian and numismatist, see Haskell 1993, 14–41. Clusius was another critic; see Stenhouse


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2005a, 123. Duellius 1730, )( **v, listed others, including Duellius himself, who questioned Lazius’s judgment, while praising his diligence. However, the suggestion that Arcimboldo’s fantastic composite portrait of a man made of books may have been intended as a satirical representation of Lazius is no longer accepted; see Elhard 2005. 65. Lazius’s numerous manuscripts relating to this project remain in the Österreichische Nationalbibliothek. They are described in Chmel 1840–41, 1:658–88. The relation of individual manuscripts to the larger project of which they form a part—namely, Lazius’s work on Austrian history, initially titled Commentarii and later Decades—is explicated in Mayr 1894, 20–72. 66. ÖNB MS 7894, Wolfgang Lazius, “Interpretatio chorographiae,” 50 fols. The preface, dedicated to Ferdinand, occupies 1r–2r. It is dated December 1545, and the author, not yet of‹cially historicus, identi‹es himself (3r) as “Wolfgangus Lazius medicinae doctor et eiusdem in gymnasio Viennae publicus professor.” The carefully prepared manuscript appears to be a presentation copy. At 1v–2r: “Sed . . . eam mihi audaciam sumpsi et provinciam in me sponte recepi, ut quod partim ab his neglectum viris [sc. earlier historians] erat gravioribus principum suorum districtis, partim quia multa suppressa a cognatis et haeredibus, ac dissipata (ut ‹t) post mortem lucem adipisci nos non possunt, Austriae Annales et maiorum tuorum historiam, tot ante nugis refertam ac sua et ‹de et lectione destitutam, in aliquando veritatis fundamentis positam haberes Maxime Princeps arduum et viribus meis graviorem subii laborem. In quo (quod ingenue fateri possum) tot evolvi bibliothecas, tam longinqua itinera suscepi, tot periculis curisque defunctus haud minima accedente et sumptu et rerum mearum iactura. Commentarios tandem quosdam concinnavi Rerum Austriacarum, non garrulos illos ac fabulosas barbarosque, sed veros et historicorum veterum Graecorum Latinorum et eorum annalium quos probatissimos iudicata ex aetate ‹de constitutos, Romanae etiam sonare vocis dignitatem docui. . . . Nam quis nescit primam esse historiae legem ne quid falsi dicere audeat, deinde ne quid vere non audeat. . . . Nec moror hic dictionem aut dicendi genus, quod magni‹cum multi in hoc genere adhibuerunt alii nimia affectatione felicioribus ingeniis ingratum reddiderunt. . . . Quo res ‹erent apertiores humili dictione incedimus, Tractus terrae ad historicorum veterum ‹dem explicavimus montes silvas lacus ›uvios perlustravimus, nationes et veteres quondam eorum locorum incolas indagavimus, Romana castri ibi et quae fuerint et quales provinciarum horum administracio docuimus. Christianam pietatem, quando isthic exortasit et quorum auspitiis ›oruerit et impietate impedimentisque interciderit, sedulo inquisivimus. His postremo Francorum Rempublicam ad postremum in Norico et Pannoniis (omnibus provinciis Austriam sitam constat) subiecimus. Unde primi eorum locorum principes et potissimum maiores in Habsburgenses comites prodiere.” 67. Lazius 1547, [Civ v]: “Haec ex Sibylla, quae mox subiungit destructionem Ecclesiae Constantinopolitanae futuram a Turcis nimirum et Sarracenis, et huius rursus restitutionem a quodam rege in ‹ne saeculorum. Qua de re postea tractabimus, et ipsum hunc regem Carolum Imperatorem nostrum ostendemus, ut etiam Sibylla insinuat, literam huius regis K futuram incialem depingens.” On Lazius’s religious writings, which include editions of religious or liturgical texts and show much interest in prophecy and apocalypticism, see Hamilton 1999, 103–7 (I owe this reference to Anthony Grafton); Reeves 1969, 69–72. 68. Lazius ultimately intended his many times rewritten, reworked, and enlarged

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writings on the international politics and wars of central Europe from the 1530s to the 1550s to be assembled as the ten books of the ‹fth decade of his planned comprehensive historical work; see Mayr 1894, 42–69. They survive in various manuscript versions: for example, in ÖNB MS 7688, Lazius’s history of the the Schmalkaldic War forms part of “Decadis quintae rerum Austricarum [libri]”; ÖNB MS 7959 contains what may be a working copy (with many pasted insertions, crossings out, and marginal corrections), and ÖNB MS 7865 contains what appears to be a presentation copy of part of book 2 with accompanying maps (Wolfgang Lazius, “Incipit liber secundus historiae Austriacae de rebus a Carolo V et Ferdinando I longe invictissimis et clementissimis Caesaribus adversus coniuramentum Schmalcaldiensem in Saxonia et Misnia feliciter gestis authore Wolfgango Lazio Viennensio,” 49 fols.). The books on recent Hungarian history are found in ÖNB MS 7967, fols. 1r–84v (second sequence of foliation), Wolfgang Lazius, “Rerum Pannonicarum annis 1539–1552 libri quatuor”; another version is in ÖNB MS 7937, fols. 1–106, Wolfgang Lazius, “Rerum Pannonicarum quas ab obitu Joannis Weyvodae inclytus Rom: Hung: Boemiaeque Rex Ferdinandus in Hungariae Regno praeclare gessit libri quatuor”; yet another is in ÖNB 7688, where it forms part of “Decadis quintae rerum Austricarum [libri].” Lazius’s account of events leading up to Maximilian II’s triple coronation (ÖNB MS 7688, fols. 258–92; another version in ÖNB MS 7995) was intended to form part of a sixth decade. On the manuscripts and the relations among them, see Mayr 1894, 61; on the description of the ceremonies for Maximilian II, see Louthan 1997, 35–42. 69. For these events, see Bonney 1991, 291–93, and Szakály 1990, 83–85. 70. ÖNB MS 7688, fols. 125r–139v; see also Mayr 1894, 49–51. 71. ÖNB MS 7688, fol. 129v: “palam milites questi, et belli iam diuturnitatem pertaesi, contumelias imperent in ducem suum iacere, eumque non solum avaritiae, verumetiam impudentiae [sic. imprudentiae?] stultitiaeque accusare.” 72. ÖNB MS 7688, fols. 129v–130r: “Accessit ad publicam querimoniam morbus quo paulatim contabescere novis maleque positis in castris milites nostri videbantur, et exercitus quotidie viribus numeroque minuebatur. Quo maxime tempore, duplicato iam hoste robore fuerat opus. Praemunitis enim levi ex materia castris, uti ea iniquissimo loco posita erat, uno eodemque ex loco potum milites petebant, ubi paulo ante victimae carnes extaque et intestina animalium a cruore mundebantur. Quae et ipsa vix media parte, et tepidae adhuc a morte, coctae, quia ligna et coqui deerant. Ita ut plurimum crudae ingestae, in corporibus morbos suscitarint labore iam temporeque imbecillis. Deinde moram ex mora quaerendo contagionem longa militia adaugebat. Quae plus etiam quam hostis saeviens optimos quosque fortissimosque viros nostro in exercitu rapuit.” For Roggendorf ’s wound and its treatment, see 132r–v. 73. ÖNB MS 7688, fol. 132v: “Saepe in fuga, et paulo post spem in armis habere.” 74. ÖNB MS 7688, fol. 134r: “Satis diu iam et virtutem militum et fortunam tentatam. Caveat denique rogant, ne ipso cunctante, nimis cito adventuri barbari opprimant inopinatos, et aut ad internecionem sternant Quintilii Vari exemplo aut se exuant castris.” 75. ÖNB MS 7688, fol. 134v: “medici, inter quos et ipsi fuimus primo loco, idem ad regem perscripsissent, ducis valetudinem adversam, et quanto vi lues in castris immedicabili prope malo grassaretur insinuantes.” 76. See Trenkler 1978; Menhardt 1936; Stummvoll 1968, 62–67. Trenkler and Stummvoll question Menhardt’s severe judgment of Lazius’s collecting practices.


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77. Lazius [1550], 7r–9r: “Catalogus et tituli codicum et autorum antiquorum, qui lucem nondum viderunt, in vetustioribus coenobiis Austriae utriusque, Carinthiae, Styriae, Cilii, Sveviae utriusque, Helvetiae, Brisgaudiae, Alsatiae, Svndgoviae, et Nigrae Sylvae, non sine situ et literarum iactura, hactenus inter tineas deliscentes.” See the report of this manuscript collection, in exactly the same words, in Appendix Bibliothecae Conradi Gesneri 1555, 104. For the subsequent history of these manuscripts, see Trenkler 1978, 201–3, according to which sixty of the seventy-one manuscripts listed are now in the Österreichische Nationalbibliothek. 78. Trenkler 1978, 196 (the manuscript is now ÖNB 2721). 79. Trenkler 1978, 193–94. 80. Two principal examples of his work in these areas are Lazius 1972 (facsimile of 1561 edition), with many maps (the maps were Lazius’s own work, according to Ernst Bernleithner; see introduction to Lazius 1972, VII), and Wolfgang Lazius, Commentariorum in Genealogiam Austriacam libri duo (Basel, 1564). I have not seen the second of these works. 81. His three principal published works on these subjects are, on Vienna, Lazius 1546; on the Danubian provinces of the Roman Empire, Lazius 1598 (I have not consulted the earlier edition of 1551); and on the Germanic migrations, Lazius 1557, 1600 (I have consulted both editions). 82. For example, ÖNB MS 8664, Wolfgang Lazius, “Archaeologia regni Hungariae” and “Descriptio Daciae sive Transsilvaniae.” 83. Rhenanus 1551 (‹rst edition 1531), 39: “Francorum origo non multo pluribus hactenus nota fuit, quam est et Alemannorum. De nomine vero ut passim ineptiunt scriptores. . . . Sed omnium ineptissimus est Annius quidam in Berosum, autoris fabulosi fabulosior interpres. . . . Non nego tamen doctum fuisse qui nobis Berosum ef‹nxit quisquis fuit. Nam ita rem temperavit ut non cuivis impostura statim suboleat.” See Huppert 1965; Huppert 1970, 72–87, especially 77–78. Rhenanus’s edition of Tacitus’s Annales was published in 1533. 84. Lazius 1600, 13–14: “Nolo hic ‹dem tribuere Austriae annalibus, qui Abrahamum fabulose quendam repetunt. . . . Et unde potissimum nugas istorum deprehendas, divis Stephani apud nos protomartyris basilicam, a quodam Ioanne, Romani praesidis . . . a fundamento surrexisse, impudentissime mentiuntur. . . . Quod multo ante Carolum magnum tempore (si sanctorum historiae ac chronologiae rationem observare voluerimus) contigisse oportuit. Quo tempore a Gothis et Hunnis Pannonias pressas, et nulla saluberrimae doctrinae in ea rudimenta fuisse, constat. Mitto hic rursus aliorum, ac vetustiorum multo, magisque ‹de dignorum Annalium traditiones, qui anno primum a nato Christo MCXI non a Iohanne sive Amanno, excogitatis illis, et qui nunquam in rerum natura fuerunt, sed ab Henrico primo hoc nomine Austriae duce.” For another example of Lazius’s insistence on his demolition of historical myths, see note 66 in the present chapter. 85. Lazius 1600, 14–19. At 14: “Adeo, ut constet plane, ante Troiani belli secula Hebraeos, sive potius illorum maiores, in Pannonis coluisse.” Lazius also referred to these stones in Lazius 1546, 6. For a transcription and translation of the text of one of the supposed inscriptions printed by Lazius, see Grafton 1985, 125; Lazius’s claims about them are also noted in Grafton 1990, 31. 86. Trenkler 1978, 191–93. For a recent evaluation of Lazius’s use of epigraphic evidence, see Stenhouse 2005a, 118–24.

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87. Lazius n.d., preface (unpaginated): “Hic rursus nimis metuo ne ex nasutorum hominum numero aliquis prodeat, et obijciat mihi, cur in alienam messem falcem miserim, et qui Graeciam nunquam perlustraverim, de ea tamen Commentarios contexere ausus sim, ac suf‹cere Pausaniae clamabit, ac Strabonis labores, qui oculis singula perlustarint. Quibus breviter respondeo, aliud esse odeporica conscribere, et aliud illa explicare, et ea inter se conferre, et quae cui desunt ex alio adijcere.” 88. Lazius 1972, VI–VII. 89. ÖNB MS 7865; Louthan 1997, 35–42. I owe the last suggestion to Anthony Grafton. 90. Cagnati 1605, 95v–96r. 91. Lazius 1598, book 8, “De vestimentis atque armaturis eius populi omnis generis,” pp. 695–745; Lazius 1557, 1600. In both the editions cited of the latter work, each of the twelve internal books opens with an illustration representing a member of a different early people, in most instances followed by several pages of explicatio. The explicationes following the illustrations to books 3, 4, 5, 8, 9, 10, and 12 include a substantial paragraph on dress. 92. Lazius 1600, book 8, pp. 353–54. For Conring’s objections to the extent of the nudity of the ancient Germans depicted in the illustrations to Clüver 1631 (‹rst published 1616), see, in the present volume, chapter 1, “Conring and the German Body” and note 144. 93. Wolfgang Lazius, “De artis medicae praestantia et antiquitate declamatio,” ÖNB MS 9472, 15v (modern foliation): “Praetereo hic historicos ac geometras, qui terras lutosas metiuntur, per paludes olentes spaciantur, montesque quamvis Chimaera sordidiores ascendunt. Quare nec sola medicina circa foetida quaedam versatur; nec si versatur, ob hoc iure contemni debet.” 94. For biographical information about Sambucus (János Zsámboki, 1531–84), see the editor’s introduction to Sambucus 1968, 11–20; Gerstinger 1926, 251–90; Bach 1932; Schultheisz 1988; Visser 2005, 1–48. According to Bálint-Nagy 1931, 165, Sambucus was salaried as historicus at the court, but his medical position was unpaid, although it involved responsibility. 95. Bálint-Nagy 1931, 167–69; Sambucus may have received only a licentiate, not a doctorate, from Padua. 96. He may at times have lectured on arts at the university, according to Aschbach 1865–88, 3:260–65. 97. On cultural patronage at the court of Maximilian II, see P. Fichtner 2001, 92–104; Evans 1984, 118–29, with insightful discussion of Sambucus at 123–27; Kaufmann 1999; Kaufmann 1993, 144–45. Astronomers and mathematicians who received the patronage of Maximilian II included Johann Rheticus and Philip Immser. Strong claims for irenicism at Maximilian’s court are made in Louthan 1997. 98. His letters to most of these men are collected in Sambucus 1968. Varga 1967 also provides a lengthy list of Sambucus’s intellectual contacts. For his contact with Herberstein, see Sambucus 1566. For his relations with Blotius, see Ernuszt 1940, 23–26; Visser 2005, 23–27. 99. See Gerstinger 1926, 291–400, for the acquisition and content of Sambucus’s manuscript collection; 279–85 for its sale. 100. Gulyás 1992 (a reprint, with additional material, of the 1941 edition of the 1587


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catalog of Sambucus’s library). The percentage of medical books is based on my count; the percentage of history books is a very rough estimate. After Sambucus’s death, his printed books, too, were purchased for the Hofbibliothek at Vienna (Gerstinger 1926, 287–88). See also Evans 1984, 125–26. 101. For his edition of Lucian, see Sambucus 1554; for his catalog, Sambucus 1965. Bakewell 1994 (typescript consulted at the Wellcome Library) provides a comprehensive bibliography of Sambucus’s works and their publication history. 102. I have consulted Sambucus 1982, a reproduction in facsimile of the 1564 edition. The most thorough study of Sambucus’s emblems is now Visser 2005. An earlier study is Homann 1971, 43–78. Sambucus’s skills as an emblematist were also put to work in Sambucus 1572, in which he interpreted the symbolism of the decorations on triumphal arches celebrating the victory of Don John of Austria at the Battle of Lepanto. 103. Sambucus 1982, preface, 3. On Sambucus’s use of ancient history in his emblems, see Visser 2001. In Sambucus 1982, dedicatees of individual emblems include Francisco Robertello (106), Hubertus Goltzius “antiquarius” (113), Pirro Ligorio (137), Hadrianus Junius “medicus clarissimus” (140–41), Carlo Sigonio (142–43) Clusius (156), and Ramus (214–15). The emblem “Aesculapius” is found at 89–90; other medical emblems are “Physicae ac Metaphysicae differentia” (74–75) and “Epidemiae potior caussa” (82–83). 104. Hippocrates 1579, at ß2r: “Glossas interea lectionesque varias ex diversis manuscriptis codicibus Hippocrateis diligenter collectas, nobis primus omnium insigni liberalitate communicavit Io. Sambucus Tirnaviensis, historicus Caesareus, ad veterum auctorum obstetricationem felici sidere, regio certe animo natus.” On these projects and authors, see Sambucus 1968, 307–9; letter 19 (Sambucus to Crato, 1566?), pp. 78–79; letter 20 (to Zwinger, 1567), pp. 79–80; letter 24 (to Oporinus [originally the intended publisher of the Hippocrates volume], 1568), pp. 85–87; letter 27 (to Zwinger, 1568), pp. 92–95; letter 38 (to Crato, 1570), pp. 109–11; letter 64 (to Zwinger, 1573), pp. 146–48; letter 100 (to Zwinger, 1576), pp. 194–95; letter 101 (to Zwinger, 1576), pp. 195–96; letter 138 (to Zwinger, 1578), pp. 245–46; letter 142 (to Zwinger, 1579), pp. 250–51; letter 143 (to Zwinger, 1579), p. 251. Sambucus’s annotations to Hippocrates were also incorporated into an eighteenth-century edition, Hippocrates 1743–49. 105. On Dioscorides in the Renaissance, see Riddle 1980, 8–142; for Mattioli and Dioscorides, Ferri 1997. See also Findlen 1999. 106. On the history of this manuscript, see Riddle 1980, 4–5, 92; Gerstinger 1970, 2–5; Mazal 1998, 10–12. I am grateful to Alain Touwaide for guidance regarding early editions of Dioscorides. 107. Sambucus 1968, 297–302; letter 61 (Sambucus to Cardinal Sirleto, February 9, 1573), p. 142 (announcing that he had been at work on the Dioscorides edition for four years and seeking Sirleto’s patronage for the project). The Anicia Juliana codex arrived in Vienna around 1565 (Riddle 1980, 92). 108. Sambucus 1968, 297–302; letter 34 (Sambucus to Vettori, April 30, 1570), pp. 104–5; letter 37 (to Vettori, August 31, 1570), pp. 108–9; letter 38 (to Crato, September 1, 1570), pp. 109–11; letter 40 (to Vettori, September 13, 1570), pp. 112–13; letter 41 (to Crato, October 31, 1570), p. 113; letter 42 (to Zwinger, November 20, 1570), pp. 113–14; letter 43 (to Crato, November 20, 1570), pp. 114–15; letter 44 (to Zwinger, June 7, 1571), pp. 116–18. 109. Sambucus 1968, 297–302; letter 48 (Sambucus to Paulo Manuzio, December 1,

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1571), pp. 123–25; letter 49 (to Vettori, December 1, 1571), pp. 125–27; letter 55 (to Vettori, July 15, 1572), pp. 133–34; letter 61 (February 9, 1573), pp. 141–43 (cited in note 107 to the present chapter); letter 80 (to Crato, February, 1575), pp. 167–69; letter 95 (to Fulvio Orsini, December 8, 1575), pp. 186–87. For the similar pattern regarding the Hippocrates edition, see note 104 to the present chapter. 110. “Hugonis Blotii S. Caesareae Majestatis bibliothecarii pro Bibliotheca imperatoria oratio. Viennae 24 aprilis 1576,” in Mosel 1835, 302; also quoted in Sambucus 1968, 298. Blotius also seems to have accused Sambucus of abstracting other manuscripts; see Visser 2005, 23–27. 111. Sarasin (1547–98) studied medicine at Montpellier and subsequently practiced medicine in Geneva. For his explanation of the respective contributions made by Sambucus (whom he referred to as “Caesareus medicus et historiographus”) and himself to the Dioscorides edition, see his preface entitled “Ad candidum lectorem” in Dioscorides 1598, ):( 4r[–5r]; this letter is also printed in Riddle 1980, 41–43. See also Reverdin 1997; Touwarde 2006. For Sambucus’s view of the affair, see Sambucus 1968, 297–302; letter 79 (Sambucus to Crato, January 23, 157), pp. 168–69; letter 86 (to Crato, March 1575), pp. 173–75; letter 91 (to Crato, September 12, 1575), pp. 181–82; letter 94 (to Crato, November 30, 1575), p. 185; letter 98 (to Zwinger, March 12, 1576), pp. 190–93; letter 105 (to Crato, November 17, 1576), pp. 201–3; letter 110 (to Crato, March 8, 1577), pp. 210–11; letter 115 (to Crato, May 25, 1577), pp. 217–18; letter 118 (to Camerarius, July 7, 1577), pp. 221–22; letter 120 (to Vettori, August 22, 1577), pp. 224–25; letter 127 (to Camerarius, January 31, 1578), pp. 123–24; letter 149 (to Etienne, April 28, 1581), pp. 258–59; letter 160 (to Crato, February 4, 1583), pp. 272–74; letter 163 (to Fulvio Orsini, November 15, 1583), pp. 277–79; letter 164 (to Camerarius, April 8, 1584?), pp. 279–83. Sambucus attributed the delays to Sarasin’s slowness and to the avarice of printers. Estienne and Sarasin apparently blamed the delays on Sambucus (Reverdin 1997, 379). 112. Riddle 1980, 109–10. Sambucus 1598, 1.7: “Si saliunca species sit nardi, in Ungaria aeque visitur, ut in Istria”; 1.135: “Miror quid de nostrate vitice et Bohemica olea quidam prodant”; 4.40: “Vix est veronicae genus: nec a Mathiolo depicta satisfacit; 4.109: “Forte epipactis genus est lichenariae minoris, licet quidam eam mihi radice bulbosa et capillacea dederit”; 4.194: “Picturae antiquae simplex ac parvum ponunt, ubi Mathiolus magnam”; 4.174: “De Sambuco aquatica viderint alii, an eo nomine sit ad hoc caput redigenda. Ego in ‹nibus Pannonicis Hasburgo oppido ad secundum lapidem a Posonio reperi Sambucum veram arborescentem, ceteris viribus parem, sed foliis incisis, ranunculo silvestri similibus, quam quia primus prodidi, Sambucum ranuncularem, vel Coronopodiam nomino.” In modern botanical terminology, Sambucus is the genus of the elderberry (however, Sambucus’s own name is a latinization of Zsámboki, a derivation from the name of the village where his family originated; see Bach 1932, 10). Poszony (modern Bratislava in Slovakia) is about ‹fty kilometers from Sambucus’s birthplace, Tyrnau (Trnava). 113. On the problems faced by Maximilian II in this regard, see P. Fichtner 2001, 119–34. 114. Gerstinger 1965. 115. Sambucus 1552. On Huttich 1534 (‹rst published in 1525, with several later editions) and Sambucus’s reissue, see Pelc 2002, pp. 28–30 and 197–201, nos. 86–90. 116. Sambucus 1968, 311–12; letter 103 (Sambucus to Zwinger, October 13, 1576), pp.

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197–200. The following letters, all to Zwinger, mention the project for a second edition of Lazius’s work: letter 76 (November 18, 1574), pp. 163–64; letter 98 (March 12, 1576), pp. 190–93; letter 100 (May 14, 1576), pp. 194–95; letter 112 (April 14, 1577), pp. 213–14; letter 143 (August 16, 1579), p. 251; letter 158 (November 9, 1582), pp. 269–71. A second edition (which I have not seen) was ‹nally published by Wechel in Frankfurt in 1598, after Sambucus’s death. 117. Lazius 1600, 675: “Peroratio operis huius authoris, ad nobilitatem Germaniae. Non ambigo, Lector candide, cuiuscunque ordinis fueris, multos futuros, qui si nihil aliud, saltem illud in praesenti Opere reprehensuri sunt, quod in Genealogiis Nobilitatis Germaniae, in quibus tamen incredibilem pene laborem sumpsimus, alicubi hallucinatus fuerim, aut non satis a primis exordiis (quando iam nemo non Troiana sibi antiquitate atque origine placet) aut plerosque illarum alumnos intermiserim, aut denique ad calcem producere stemmata nequiverim.” 118. Ransano and Sambucus 1558. To Ransano’s work, Sambucus added an appendix, some additional chapters, and a dedicatory preface to Maximilian II. On Ransano, the printing history of the Epitome, and Sambucus’s contribution, see the editor’s introduction to Ransano 1977, 7–20; ibid., 186–88, reprints Sambucus’s preface to Maximilian. Sambucus also edited the works of the ‹fteenth-century Hungarian humanist Janus Pannonius; see Janus Pannonius 1972 (facsimile of 1569 edition). 119. Antonio Bon‹ni, Rerum Ungaricarum decades tres, nunc demum industria Martini Brenneri Bistriciensis Transsylvani in lucem aeditae, antehac nunquam excusa. Quibus accesserunt Chronologia Pannonum a Noah usque haec tempora, et Coronis historiae ungaricae diversorum auctorum (Basel: Robert Winter, 1543). I have not seen this edition. On Bon‹ni and his work, see Kulcsár 1970. 120. Bon‹ni 1568. The contents of the volume, listed on the verso of the title page, are as follows (all except the ‹rst two items follow at the end of Bon‹ni’s work and occupy 751–923): Eorum quae hoc opera continentur, Catalogus 1. Antonii Bon‹nii rerum ungaricarum decades tres cum XV libris nunc primum adiectis. 2. Nicolai Olahi archiepiscopi Strigoniensis, Atila [sic] [work in 18 chapters inserted into Bon‹ni’s Decade I]. 3. Ioan. Sambuci Appendix de Ladislao et Ludovico regibus Ungariae. 4. Stephani Broderith descriptio cladis in campo Mohacz. 5. Ioan. Sambuci Oratio funebris, et epitaphia, in obitum divi Ferdinandi primi Imp. 6. Rerum ad Agriam gestarum narratio, Sambuci [i.e., successful resistance to the Ottomans at Eger in 1552]. 7. Obsidionis Zigeth brevis ac vera expositio, Eiusdem [i.e., successful defense of Szigetvár against the Ottomans in 1556—prior to its ‹nal loss in 1566; this brief work was also printed separately as Johannes Sambucus, Obsidio Zigenthis anno MDLVI descripta (Vienna, n.d.), with a dedication to Maximilian dated 1558]. 8. Expugnatio arcis Temesuari, per Eundem descripta [loss of Temesvár to the Ottomans in 1552].

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9. Arcis Tokay expugnatio, Eodem autore [capture of Tokaj from János Zápolya by the Habsburg general Lazarus von Schwendi in 1565]. 10. Concordia Ungarica, inter Fridericum III Imp. Maximilianum Rom. et Ung. Regem, et Vladislaum Ung. Et Boemiae regem, Anno 1491. 11. Salariatus Regni Ungariae [list of defense expenditures for different regions of Hungary]. 12. De reddita Mathiae corona, et foedere inter ipsum et Fridericum III Imp. 13. Chronologia Pannoniae. 14. Michaelis Ritii de Regibus Ungariae libri 2. 15. P. Callimachi Experientis Attila. 16. T. Cortesii de Mathiae Corvini regis laudibus, Carmen. 17. Reges Ungarici versibus descripti, per Sambucum [Attila to Maximilian II]. 18. Abraham Bakschay Chronologia regum Hungariae [Attila to 1567]. 19. Alberti a Lasco exhortatio ad milites [1561]. 20. Praecepta aliquot imperatoria Sambuci [apparently some of the same material later reissued with a dedication to Rudolph II as Johannes Sambucus, Leges imperatoriae, sive de tribus summis imperatoris virtutibus Gnoma generales, in Johannes Sturm, De bello adversus Turcas perpetua administrando (Iena, 1598), H4r–I8r]. A second edition, which I have not seen, appeared in 1581; see Sambucus 1968, 202–3. Toward the end of his career, Sambucus also edited a work of Spanish history, Alvar Gómez de Castro’s life of the ‹fteenth-century archbishop of Toledo Francisco Jiménez de Cisneros, included in volume 3 of Robert Beale’s compilation Rerum Hispanicarum scriptores aliquot (Frankfurt: André Wechel, 1579–81). 121. On the campaigns of the 1550s and 1560s, which included some military successes, see P. Fichtner 2001, 123–24; Szakály 1990, 86–87. 122. Blotius’s comment is quoted in Sambucus 1968, 293: “Nihil autem mihi magis mirum videtur quam nihil fere a nobis scriptum historicorum fuisse inventum [among Sambucus’s papers after his death], cum tot tamen annos historiographi Caes. nomen gesserit et stipendia ex nomine perceperit.” It is also quoted in Ernuszt 1940, 26. 123. Bon‹ni 1568, preface; Sambucus 1579. My thanks to Anthony Grafton for kindly providing a photocopy of the version in the Artes historicae penus. 124. Sambucus 1574. The similarity with the method of the Emblemata is noted in Evans 1984, 124–25. 125. Sambucus 1574, nos. 16, 17, 26, 27. The relation to Dioscorides is pointed out by Maria Vida, “János Zsámboky (Sambucus) 1531–1584 and the ‘Icones,’” in the introductory material to Sambucus 1985, 14–15. Zoltán Kádár and Gabriella Jantsits, “The Portraits of Physicians in the Renaissance and the ‘Icones,’” in the introductory material to Sambucus 1985, 18, suggest the Vienna Dioscorides as the source for some of the ancient “portraits.” 126. Sambucus 1574. The recent or contemporary ‹gures listed follow (dates added): 28. Gianbatista Da Monte, 1498–1551 29. Jean Fernel, 1497–1558 30. Vettor Trincavella, ?1496–1568


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31. Jacobus Sylvius, 1478–1555 32. Andreas Vesalius, 1514–64 33. Konrad Gessner, 1516–65 34. Johann Guinter of Andernach, 1487–1574 35. Antonio Musa Brasavola, 1500–1555 36. Paolo Giovio, 1483–1552 37. Leonhart Fuchs, 1501–66 38. Georg Agricola, 1494–1555 39. Janus Cornarius, 1500–1558 40. Pier Andrea Mattioli, 1500–1577 41. Ippolito Salviani, 1514–72 42. Guillaume Rondelet, 1507–66 43. Giulio Alessandrini, 1506–90 44. Johann Crato von Krafftheim, 1519–85 45. Nicholas Biese, 1516–72 46. Donato Antonio Altomare, 1506–62 47. Niccolò Massa, 1489–1569 48. Hadrianus Junius, 1511–75 49. Giovanni Argenterio, 1513–72 50. Johannes Cuspinianus, 1473–1529 51. Valerius Cordus, 1515–44 52. Jan Van Gorp (Goropius), 1518–72 53. Girolamo Cardano, 1501–76 54. J. C. Scaliger, 1484–1558 55. Benedetto Vittori, d. 1561 56. Giunio Paolo Grassi, d. 1575 57. Barolomeo da Montagnana, ›. 1422–1460 58. Michele Savonarola, ?1385–?1466 59. Wolfgang Lazius, 1514–65 60. Matteo Corte, 1475–1542 61. H. Bock (Tragus), 1498–1554 62. Theophrastus Paracelsus, 1493–1541 63. Pietro de’ Crescenzi, 1233–ca. 1320 64. Marsilio Ficino, 1433–99 65. Sambucus himself 127. Sambucus 1985 (facsimile of 1603 edition). On the relation of collections of portraits to biographical collections, see, in the present volume, chapter 3, “Medical Men in Biographical Collections,” and bibliography there cited.

chapter 7 1. For a summary and bibliography of some of the medical debates over New World drugs and diseases, see Grafton 1992, 176–93. The accounts of medicinal plants of the New World by the Seville medical practitioner Nicholas Monardes (1512?–1588) and of India by the Portuguese physician Garcia de Orta (the latter one of the ‹rst European

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works on Indian medicine) were both published in a number of editions and translated into several languages. I have consulted Monardes 1565 and Orta 1579 (Latin version edited and annotated by Carolus Clusius). The Portuguese original of Garcia da Orta’s work was ‹rst published in Goa in 1563. 2. Hernandez is styled “medicus et historicus” on the title page of the original manuscript (in facsimile in Hernandez 1926). The work has also been published in Spanish translation, in Hernandez 1986, with Hernandez’s history of the conquest at 195–226; for Hernandez’s use of his sources, see the editor’s introduction at 25–27. On his career and writings, see Varey et al. 2000. For the publication history of Hernandez’s works, see Hernandez 2000, xvii–xix; selections from the Antiquities appear in English translation at 65–78. 3. Bernier 1670 (Frédéric Tinguely has in preparation a new edition of Bernier’s work, with publication expected in 2007 by Éditions Chandeigne in Paris). Bernier (1620–88) traveled to India in 1655. The history of the war occupies his volume 1 and part of volume 2, the remaining volumes being ‹lled with descriptions of Delhi, Hindu religious practices, and an expedition to Kashmir with the army of Aurungzebe, as well as other topics. I am grateful to Nicholas Dew for drawing Bernier’s history to my attention. Subsequently, Bernier published a seven-volume Abrégé de la philosophie de Gassendi (1684); see Joy 1987. On Bernier and other French medical travelers to India, see Valence 2000. On Bernier, see also Burke 1999. A younger contemporary of Bernier, the completely self-educated Niccolao Manucci, also practiced medicine in India for many years and wrote, or rather dictated, a history of recent events in the Mughal state (Manucci 1907–8; on Manucci, see also G. Lucchetta 1984). On Renaissance travel to India more generally, see Rubiés 2000. European knowledge of the history of Japan also long depended on the work of a seventeenth-century medical traveler, the Westphalian physician Engelbert Kaempfer, who visited Japan from 1690 to 1692, although the publication of his History of Japan (which ‹rst appeared in English translation in 1727 and in the original German in 1777–79) falls outside the chronological scope of this book (Bodart-Bailey 1999, 5–10). 4. Hernandez 1986, 2.11, p. 128. 5. Zimmerman 1995a, 25–26, 121–22, 190–91. Giovio, Historiae, in Giovio 1957–85, book 14, 3:289–326; book 43, 5:129–541. The treatise on the Turks is Giovio, Comentario de le cose de Turchi (n.p.: [153?]), which I have not seen. 6. See Brentjes 1999, especially 439–48. 7. On the Venetian presence in the Ottoman Empire in general in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, see G. Lucchetta 1980, 1984. Regarding medici condotti engaged by Venetian consuls and merchant communities, see further discussion later in the present chapter. 8. Tinguely 2000, 17–23; Frank Lestringant’s introduction to Thevet 1985. On Gilles, see Ronald G. Musto’s introduction to Gilles 1988, ix–xxx. 9. Dannenfeldt 1968, 31–32. 10. See Loris Premuda, “Wieland (or Guilandinus), Melchior,” DSB 14:335–36. Similarly, although Gilles, Belon, and Thevet traveled in the entourage of a royal ambassador and bene‹ted from his hospitality and protection, they also received ‹nancial support from their patrons—respectively, Cardinals d’Armagnac, de Tournon, and de Lorraine (Tinguely 2000, 20).


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11. For a bibliography of almost 450 travel narratives written between the fourteenth century and 1600 (most of them in the sixteenth century), including an analysis of the geographic and linguistic origins and social or occupational status of their authors, see Yerasimos 1991. 12. For a perceptive account of the weight of descriptive tradition and the way in which different authors of travel accounts responded to it, see Tinguely 2000, especially chapter 2; Lestringant’s introduction to Thevet 1985, XVIII–XX, XLV–LX, LXXXVII– LXXXIX. 13. The following useful studies are by no means intended to constitute a complete list: Black 1985; Bisaha 2004; Meserve 2000, 2003; Wunder 2003. 14. Belon 2001 (the work was ‹rst published in 1553). On Belon as a naturalist, see Philippe Glardon’s introduction to Belon 1997, I–LXXI. 15. See, for example, the descriptions of local medical practitioners and the presence of a Venetian physician and apothecary in the service of the Venetian consul in Damascus (Belon 2001, 2.91, pp. 393, 395), of the rhubarb trade in Aleppo (2.102, pp. 312–13), and of Turkish methods of cauterization (3.21, pp. 481–82). For Belon’s education in medicine, see Barsi 2001, 17–20 and documents there cited; Zinguer 1993. 16. Alexandra Merle’s introduction to Belon 2001, 26–28; Tinguely 2000, 77–88; Zinguer 1993. 17. For the comparison with Callisthenes, see Belon, Chronique, in Barsi 2001, 76–77; for a comparison of the Huguenots with earlier heretical sects and rebels, 82–85; on the less tolerable situation under the Huguenots than in schismatic or non-Christian lands, 89. 18. Belon 1553. 19. Belon 1553, 3.5, “De naphta rufa,” 43v–49v. 20. Belon 1553, aiiir-v: “Nunc autem quoniam hoc mihi vacui temporis tua largitur muni‹centia, ut literis mandare queam quae sedulo per me sunt observata, dum Orientis plagas peragrarem, con‹do fore, ut quemadmodum illa mihi praeclara cognitu visa sunt, ita quoque iucunda lectu tibi omnibusque videri possint, eaque potissimum quae hoc opere de admirabili praestantia, et quadam veluti maiestate rerum antiquarum perscripsimus. Id ut ego quam accuratissime facerem, partim me impulerunt doctissimi tui hisce de rebus sermones, partim pegmatum, colossorum, substructionum, statuarum aenearum, et fusilium iussu Francisci Regis nuper vita functi affabre factarum excellentia, et numeris omnibus absoluta perfectio. Quin et huius instituti operis haec praesertim causa mihi fuit, quod cum adessem in tuo cubiculo per id tempus quo Romam pro‹cisci (mortuo Ponti‹ce Paulo) parabas, teque tuo Pharmacopolae imperantem audissem ut Mumiam (sic Arabes vocant) quam diligentissime posset compararet, eamque famuli a ciathistuo cum rhabarbaro, ut moris nostratum est, traderet. Ego apud te disserui id non esse quod vulgus autumat, sed id quod non incelebres autores, Mela et Plinius medicatum cadaver, et servatum corpus appellitant.” 21. Dannenfeldt 1985; Grégoire, “Belon et la polémique de la mumie,” in Belon 2004, 163–79, with a collection of relevant passages from others involved in the controversy. On representations and descriptions of mumia in medieval herbals, see also Camille 1999. For the role of Valerius Cordus in interesting Belon in the subject, see Belon 1553, 2.6, 27v. 22. Belon 2001, 2.42–47, pp. 310–20; the Egyptian section of his travels is edited sep-

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arately in Belon 2004. For the length and extent of his stay in Egypt, see Merle’s introduction to Belon 2001, 19–20, and Grégoire’s introduction to Belon 2004, XXIII. For this portion of his travels, Belon joined the entourage of another French ambassador (Fumel). 23. On Belon’s contemporary critics, see Glardon in Belon 1997, XXII–XXVI. On the possibility that he had assistance in composing his Latin works, see Glardon in ibid., L–LI. 24. Belon 1553, 1.2, “De vetustissima et omnium quae ex solido lapide supersunt amplissima mole, hoc est Aegyptio Androsphinge, et de aliis permultis ingentissimis colossis maiori admiratione dignis qui unquam extiterunt,” 2r–3v. See Pliny Naturalis historia 36.17; Herodotus The Histories 2.175. Others beside Belon have sometimes suggested this solution for the apparent absence of any reference to the Sphinx in Herodotus’s description of Egypt. 25. On Renaissance enthusiasm for Egypt in general, see Dannenfeldt 1959; Allen 1970, chapter 5; Iversen 1993, chapters 3 and 4. For seventeenth-century developments, see Stolzenberg 2001. On the obelisks, see Iversen 1968; Curran and Grafton 1995. 26. Belon 1553, 1.8, “De suspicienda atque admirabili permultorum obeliscorum maiestate,” 6v–9v. At 7r: “Quod autem obelisci sepulturae gratia excisi sunt, vel ex hoc probari potest, quod et de Pyramidibus diximus. . . . Nam ego qui studiose singulos quos vidi, observavi, iam supra triginta animadverti. Desinamus itaque causam inquirere cur Obelisci et Pyramides factae sint, cum iam satis probaverim sepulturae causa factos fuisse. Habent obelisci quod admiratione multo maiori dignum sit quam Pyramides.” Recognition that the pyramids were funerary monuments was not universal in Belon’s day. 27. Belon 1553, 2.2, “De antiqua vulgaris Mumiae (quod tamen medicatum funus est) Graeca et Latina nomenclatura,” 23v–24v; 2.3, “Quod Galenus, Paulus, Aetius, et ante eos omnes Dioscorides, non minus quam historici, servatum corpus agnoverint,” 24v–25v. At 24v: “Historici in rerum descriptione hoc a medicis in scribendo discrepant, quod illi historia tenus res ipsas tantum describere soleant, medici vero statim ad earum rerum naturam, vires, medicamenta et auxilia quae ab iis petuntur, describenda aggrediuntur.” 28. Belon 1553, 2.12, 34r: “Paucis autem ab hinc annis hoc medicamentum ad nos adferri coepit. . . . Cum vero neque ex ullis Arabum aut Hebraeorum, Graecorum, aut Latinorum scriptis doceri possit, cadaver hoc conditum in aliquo usu olim apud priscos mortales fuisse.” 29. Belon 1553, 2.13, “Quod nimia licentia Arabes authores antiqui et immerito a quibusdam recentioribus coarguantur,” 34v–36v. At 36r: “Verum quum Graecae literae, quae diu velut in tenebris iacuerant, in lucem revocatae sint, Graecos in praesentia sequi malumus. Sed re vera sine Arabibus Praxis frigidiuscule exerceretur.” 30. Dioscorides 1516, 1.105, 18v–19r; Pliny Naturalis historia 16.21. Chemical analysis carried out during recent investigations has identi‹ed cedar resin among the ingredients used in some Egyptian embalming. See Koller et al. 2003. 31. Belon 1553, 3.1, “De cedria,” 39v–41r. 32. Belon 1553, 2.9–10, 30v–33r. On the probable psychological implications of the idea of medicine from corpses, see the perceptive comments of Camille 1999. 33. Alpino 1646, preface. The ‹rst edition of this work was published in 1591. Here


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and in what follows, I cite from the second edition. Several subsequent editions were published in the eighteenth and the early nineteenth centuries. Alpino 1961 provides an Italian translation, with brief biographical introduction. On Alpino (1553–1616), see further Ongaro 1961–63, with appendix of documents at 143–68 (the whole of the journal issue including this work is devoted to the proceedings of a conference on Alpino); G. Lusina, “Alpino (Alpini), Prospero,” DBI 2:529–31; Jerry Stannard, “Alpini, Prospero,” DSB 1:124–25; G. Lucchetta 1984, at 215–33. Prospero Alpini, medico e viaggiatore, nel 450° della nascita. Atti della conferenza di studi, Marostica, 23 Novembre 2003, 2005. Ongaro 2005 summarizes the present state of research on Alpino and calls attention to surviving manuscripts of his work. I follow DBI in using the form Alpino (rather than Alpini) for his name. Abbreviated earlier versions of parts of the present chapter relating to Alpino’s and Conring’s views of Egyptian medicine have appeared in Siraisi 2001a and 2002b. 34. For some examples of Alpino’s histories of his own cases and patients (mostly Europeans, Copts, and occasionally Turkish of‹cials) in Cairo, his observations of Egyptian practitioners at work, and his contacts with other expatriate Italian physicians, see Alpino 1646, 1.8, 14r; 1.10, 17r; 1.14, 24v; 2.10, 59v, 60r; 2.15, 73v; 3.12, 98r; 3.14, 104v, 105r; 3.17, 121r–v; 4. 6, 130r; 4.8, 133v–134r. Alpino also described some of these and other contacts in a general work on Egypt, Alpino 1735 (French translation in Alpino 1979). For discussion of Alpino’s medical contacts in Egypt, see also G. Lucchetta 1984, at 217–19. 35. Alpino 1735, 2.1, pp. 85–88: “Aegyptii disciplinarum studiis, ut nos etiam in libris de Medicina Aegyptiorum tradidimus, maxime delectantur. Primum enim linguae Arabicae, Persicae, atque Turcicae operam dant. Nec non variarum disciplinarum studiis, quippe logicae, quam mantich vocant, philosophiae, metaphysicae, rhetoricae, theologiae, mathemathicae, magicisque etiam scientiis generis cujusque. . . . Dixi alias cum de templo Cairi celebri sermonem instituerem, quod vocant Gemelazar, in eo universalem fere omnium disciplinarum academiam magnis sumptibus, ali in qua professores, atque studiosi, victum, vestitum, et ad libros etiam, gratis nutriuntur. In hoc inquam celebri Gymnasio omnes discipline docentur, quippe logica, naturalis, et supranaturalis philosophia, rhetorica, mathematica, medicina, et magia tum naturalis, tum supranaturalis; sed omnium maxime astrologiae judiciariae dant operum, atque artibus omnibus divinatoriis. . . . Sed quid de necromantia arte dicemus? Omnem illius speciem in Aegypto abunde, neque clam exerceri, qua, mira quidem, et ab Aegyptiis, et ab aliis ‹eri deprehendimus.” Ibid., 1.5 (size, magni‹cence, and commercial prosperity of Cairo), 1.17 (cuisine), 1.3 (superiority and nourishing quality of Nile water, Alpino’s increasing weight). For a different sixteenth-century view—that water does not in itself “nourish,” though it is necessary for the body—see Bacci 1576, 131–33. On the origins and transmission of the idea of Egypt as a source of ancient wisdom and wonders in astrology, natural magic, alchemy, and so on, see Hornung 2001. 36. Vergil 2002, 1.20, pp. 154–63; 1.21, pp. 162–69 (the references to “Mercurius” [i.e., Hermes Trismegistus] and Egypt are at 154–55). See also, in the present volume, chapter 3, note 47. 37. Clement of Alexandria Stromateis 6.4. 38. Asclepius 37, now most readily consulted in Hermetica 1992, 90. 39. Introductio seu medicus, in Galen 1821–33, 14:674–76. For Egypt in Galen’s

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authentic writings, see Nutton 1993a. Most of Galen’s remarks re›ect his disdain for contemporary Hellenistic medicine in Alexandria, where he spent several years. Nutton points out that his information about indigenous Egyptian remedies as well as his prejudices concerning Egypt and the Egyptians came from Greek written sources. A concise account of modern historical and archaeological knowledge of early Egyptian medicine is provided in Estes 1989; for the Egyptian origin of some plant remedies and possibly also some concepts and techniques used in Greek medicine, see ibid., 122–23. 40. See, in this volume, chapter 1, “Girolamo Mercuriale and Greco-Roman Physical Culture” and note 113; chapter 2, “Medical Collections: Consilia, Consultationes, Epistolae, Variae Lectiones, Cures, Observationes,” and note 12. 41. Lange 1589, 2.2, pp. 522–50. At 526: “Graeci vero, scientiae Aegyptiorum mancipia et simiae[.]” At 528–29: “At Egyptii ab origine mundi omnes medicinae studio adeo ›agrarunt[;] . . . ipsi nempe medicinam magia naturali admirandam effecerunt, et illustrarunt adeo ut pleraque pharmaca vel hodie videantur esse epodoi, carmina, vel incantamenta. . . . Ac Persae magiam Graecos docuerunt, qui haec ab Aegyptiis primum hauserunt, ad quae discenda Democritus, Pythagoras et Plato in Aegyptum migrarunt, ut arcana magiae, cui medicina annexa fuit, ab Aegyptiorum magis et Hebraeis qui tum in servitute Aegyptiorum vitam misere traducebant, addiscerent.” The dark side of Egyptian magical medicine is especially emphasized in Lange 1589, 1.72, pp. 434–44, headed “Veteres ex Aegypto philosophos divina herbarum medicamenta, magica et anili superstitione infamasse turpiter,” and 2.46, pp. 772–80, in which (778–79) Lange classifed Egyptian magical medicine into natural and demonic varieties. 42. Guilandinus 1572, with passage quoted at 107. I am grateful to Anthony Grafton for the loan of a micro‹lm of the copy in Cambridge University Library (Adu. C. 19.1), with critical annotations by J. J. Scaliger. For Guilandinus’s views on papyrus and Scaliger’s criticism of Guilandinus’s classical scholarship, see Grafton 1979. On Guilandinus (ca. 1520–89), see Loris Premuda, “Wieland (or Guilandinus), Melchior,” DSB 14:335–36; Pisanski 1785. 43. See Palmer 1985. 44. See, in addition to the various biographical sources for Guilandinus and Alpino cited in previous notes to this chapter, G. Lucchetta 1984, at 220–23. Guilandinus’s Papyrus is dedicated to one of his Venetian patrons. 45. Alpino 1646, 1.1, 1v: “Hippopotamum et alia bruta animalia, de quibus ea medendi miracula praedicantur, ibi reperiri certum est, at quod ego de hominibus medicinam pro‹tentibus hisce annis observarim, in medium nunc tibi proferam, paucisque narrabo, quae ex his scitu digna mihi fuere visa, ac primum dico, Cayri aliisque in locis Aegypti plurimos tum viros, tum mulieres reperiri, qui publice per urbem medicinam faciunt, non tamen ullos existere, qui hanc artem aliqua ratione atque Hippocratice faciant.” 46. Alpino 1646, 1.1, 1v–3r, with passage quoted at 1v: “ibi nunc non literis, sed armis opera ab his populis detur: neque id quidem mirum, cum Turcarum imperio ea gens subiecta sit, qui nullis scientiarum studiis delectantur: armis tantum, auro argentoque et veneri indulgentes.” 47. Alpino 1646, 1.3, 5v–6v: “ Hic corruptus medendi modus non a priscorum illorum medicorum ignorantia principium duxit, sed ut ex Aegyptiis historiarum peritis audivi, a barbara priscorum Aegypto imperantium tyrannide, tempore enim quo


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Mamaluchi illiusce regionis obtinebant imperium, omnia ea loca medicis doctissimis ›orebant, qui dogmatice summaque cum ratione medicinam faciebant, sed tanta erat ea in dominis barbaries, ut optimi illi doctissimique medici, vel rebus bene gestis saepe lucri loco ab iis contumeliis af‹cerentur.” 48. Alpino 1735, 2.9, pp. 118–19. R. de Fenoyl, the editor of Alpino 1979, suggests (1:224–25) identi‹cations for the books named by Alpino. 49. Belon 2001, 3.21, pp. 481–82. 50. Alpino 1646, 1.1, 2v; 3.3–10, 80r–96v, with illustration (of a male patient) at 92r. Alpino’s account of his effort to introduce the Egyptian method of scari‹cation to Bassano in the Veneto is at 3.4, 82r–83r, and includes the case histories of six patients—all children, adolescents, or elderly women. His condotto as town physician of Bassano was not renewed; see Ongaro 1961–63, 97–98. 51. Alpino 1646, 1.1, 2r–v. 52. Alpino 1646, 1.2, 3r: “Ut per eos annos, quibus Cayri moram traxi, observare potui, potius methodicae simulque empiricae ipsos addictos iudicavi.” On the ancient methodists, see Celsus 1971, 1:28–36; Galen 1985, 10–13. For a modern analysis, see Nutton 2004, 187–201. 53. Alpino 1611. A century later, this work still retained the esteem of Hermann Boerhaave, who was responsible for a second edition (Leiden, 1719). Alpino announced his intention to revive methodism in a prefatory epistle in his De praesagienda vita, et morte aegrotantium. Libri septem published in 1601 (a work reissued in many subsequent editions). On Alpino and medical methodism, see Premuda 1961–63, with appendix of excerpts from De medicina methodica in Italian translation at 28–63. 54. Alpino 1646, 1.9, 14v; similarly 2.2, 42r, where Alpino admitted, “Veris Aegyptiis, (Christianis exceptis) nunc tota ea regio [presumably Cairo and environs] fere penitus caret.” 55. Alpino 1646, book 1, contains eighteen chapters, covering respectively the medical profession (1–4); geography and climate (5–8); physique, longevity, and diet of the inhabitants (9–12); and disease environment (13–18). Book 2 (sixteen chapters) is devoted to bloodletting and cupping, book 3 (nineteen chapters) mostly to scari‹cation. Book 4, on medication, has ‹fteen chapters, on alterative medicines (1), drugs used to obtain dream visions (2), decoctions (3), syrups (4), purgatives (5–7), theriac (8–12), other compound medicines (13), enemas (14), and fever medications (15). The passages on coffee and lemon sherbet or lemonade are found at 4.1, 118r, and 4.3, 124r. Alpino referred to the drug mumia and to Belon not in this work on the medicine practiced by the Egyptians themselves but in his work on Egyptian natural history; see Alpino 1735, 1.7, pp. 34–37. 56. Alpino 1646, 1.11–12, 17r–22v. 57. Alpino 1646, 4.8, 133v; the theriac recipe is found at 4.9, 134v–136r. On the controversies in Italy during the 1560s and 1570s over the correct composition of theriac, for which Galen had given a recipe involving vipers and sixty-three other ingredients, see Findlen 1994, 241–45, 272–85; an account of the manufacture of theriac in Egypt in the seventeenth century is edited and translated in Leiser and Dols 1987. 58. Alpino 1646, 2.4, 45v–46r. At 46r: “Quam in his [sc. pueris] missionem etsi Galenus non laudaverit, aliis etiam praeclarissimis viris in arte medica, ut Rasi, Haly, Avenzoar, Avicennae, Celso, secus persuasum est.” Some of the other alleged Egyptian

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practices similarly endorsed in Alpino’s work included such alarming procedures as bloodletting in cases of dysentery and bloodletting from arteries as well as veins (2.7, 51v–54r; 2.11–12, 60v–63r). 59. Guilandinus prefaced these letters—Mercuriale’s Repugnantia and his own Assertio—with a dedicatory epistle to Giovan Vincenzo Pinelli and published them along with his Papyrus in Guilandinus 1572. Mercuriale’s Repugnantia is dated 1567 (ibid., 240) and refers to his having known Guilandinus for thirteen years (ibid., 235). For Mercuriale’s encouragement of Alpino to publish, see Alpino 1646, prefatory letter “eruditis lectoribus,” eiiv. 60. Mercuriale, Repugnantia, in Guilandinus 1572, 235, 236; Guilandinus, Assertio, in ibid., 242, 244. 61. In 1569, Guilandinus wrote to Giovan Vicenzo Pinelli, commenting unfavorably on Mercuriale’s interpretation of the ingredients of types of bread mentioned by ancient authors (Bibliotheca Ambrosiana, MS S 109 sup., fols. 26r–v [Mercuriale to Pinelli] and 27r [Guilandinus to Pinelli]). But a letter of 1574 from Sperone Speroni to Mercuriale (Ceruti 1867, 23) requests “A quelli nostri signori amici, infra li quali i primi sono il sig. Pinelli e Guillandini, tenetemi caro colla vostra autorità.” On Mercuriale and Renaissance Hippocratism, see, in the present volume, chapter 2 and bibliography there cited. 62. Milan, Biblioteca Ambrosiana, MS S 84 sup., fols. 309r–313v, Girolamo Mercuriale, “Oratio prima,” with a survey of the history of medicine at 309r–310v. 63. See chapter 1, “New Diseases and New Anatomy” and note 28. 64. Mercuriale 1602, 358 (in the commentary on De victus in acutis). 65. Mercuriale 1588, 3 (the ‹rst edition of Mercuriale’s Censura appeared in 1583). This theory had ‹rst been put forward by Galen; see Galen, Hippocratis De natura hominis et Galeni in eum commentarius I, in Galen 1821–33, 15:105, also cited in Grafton 1990, 12. 66. On the view of Egypt in Lange’s epistles, see note 41 to the present chapter; for discussion, see G. Lucchetta 1984, at 218. 67. Le Clerc 1702 (‹rst edition 1696), books 1–2, pp. 1–103. At 2.9, 102: “Tout y paroît presque fabuleux ou incertain, ou du moins extremement confus.” On this work, see, in the present volume, chapter 3, note 121. 68. On the medieval tradition of the Tabula, see Crisciani 1995, 177–84. 69. See Halleux 1980. I am grateful to William Newman for this reference. On the late sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century debate over the dating and authenticity of the Hermetic corpus, see Mulsow 2002. 70. Conring 1648, cited in this chapter; the revised and expanded edition is Conring 1669. On Conring, see bibliography cited in the present volume in chapter 1, note 120. 71. Conring 1648, chapters 2–3, pp. 2–31. At 29: “Est quibus omnibus jam sole clarior, nisi fallor, est facta chemiae novitas . . . haud multo ante Constantinum artem illam caepisse ostentari. Si hoc autem est clarissimum, uti est, multo magis utique claret id cujus gratia haec omnia nunc attulimus, nempe, minime omnium ab Hermete usque Trismegisto illam esse. Adeoque claret etiam, per fabulam imo merum mendacium illam quae dicitur Tabulam Smaragdinam, Hermeti illi vulgo attribui.” 72. Conring 1648, chapters 4–6, pp. 31–58. The chapter titles are respectively “Quae fuerit olim Hermetica doctrina hodie sciri non posse, quod libri omnes Hermetici


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incertae sint ‹dei, nec supersint illius doctrina vetusta monumenta,” “De singulis libris qui hodie Hermeti Trismegisto attribui solent demonstratur, vel nullius vel incertae omnes ‹dei nec multum antiquos esse, eoque Hermeticam doctrinam tuto inde peti non posse,” and “Hermetica deperdita scripta, quorum veteres meminerunt, itidem omnia fuisse supposititia.” Casaubon is quoted at length on pages 46–47. 73. Conring 1648, chapter 7, pp. 58–67: “Non superesse hodie libros veteres aliorum auctorum, unde tuto Hermetica doctrina possit peti: imo videri Hermetem ipsum fabulose tantum esse ‹ctum.” At 66: “Nec tamen soli Aegyptii in hunc modum de uno aliquo artium inventore fabulati sunt.” On the Leiden physician, Arabist, and linguistic theorist Johann Elichmann (1600–1639), see NDB 4:440, s.v. “Elichman(n).” 74. Conring 1648, 72: “Caeterum quae olim fuit Hermetica medicina, etsi chemica merito non potuerit dici, magicam tamen tota fuisse cum illa qua jam diximus liquido docent.” 75. Kircher’s Oedipus Aegyptiacus containing his (symbolic and erroneous) interpretation of hieroglyphics was published in Rome in the mid-1650s, but his project was set forth in earlier works and widely known in the European scholarly community. 76. Conring 1648, 77–81. At 79: “Sane Pythagoram quoque et Democritum et Eudoxum, et ante omnes Orpheum et Onomacritum medicinae suae partem in Aegypto didicisse, facturi alias sumus verisimile.” 77. Conring 1648, 83–87. At 86–87: “Non potuit tamen omitti, saltim ut appareat, Graecos in ipsam Aegyptum suam medicinam introduxisse, non autem usos esse veteri illi Aegyptiaca. Et vero iam olim caeperat a Persis quoque Aegyptiacae Graecanica illa praeferri. Darium Hystaspis luxatione fermoris laborantem cum male curassent medici quos ex Aegypto adduxerat clarissimos, atque is a Democede Crotoniense sanatus esset . . . prolixe narravit Herodotus[.]” For Johannes Alexandrinus, see Johannes Alexandrinus 1982 and Hankinson 1990. 78. See Von Staden 1989, 1–31; Nutton 2004, 40–44, 151, with bibliography of recent controversy on the issue. 79. Conring 1648, 87. On the following page, Conring noted that Garcia de Orta likewise testi‹ed to the use of the Arab medical authors by Turkish physicians. 80. Conring 1648, chapter 10, pp. 88–97: “Physiologiam et pathologiam Aegyptiacam humani corporis partim rudem fuisse, partem ineptam: parum certe habuisse verae scientiae.” 81. Conring 1648, chapter 11, pp. 97–119: “Ipsam medendi rationem Aegyptiacam cum alias rudiorem fuisse, tum maxime superstitione et magica impietate infectam.” 82. Conring 1648, 118: “Ita enim pene usu venit ubi magica sunt in pretio, ut quae natura suppeditat contemnantur, nec possint facile illa ab aliis distingui: usque adeo sese commiscente cum natura vi daemonum, ut perfrequenter in illius locum horum ludibria obrepant. Nec vero est quod magicam illam medicinam Aegyptiorum arcanis naturae viribus attribuas cum Joanne Langio et aliis.” 83. Borch [Borrichius] 1674. 84. Le Clerc 1702, 2.9, pp. 102–3. 85. Minadoi 1587. This ‹rst edition dealt with events until 1585; Minadoi revised the second edition (Minadoi 1588b)—from which I cite in this chapter unless I note otherwise—to carry the story through 1586. Two more editions in the original Italian appeared in Turin (1588c) and Venice (1594), and there was an English translation by

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Abraham Hartwell (Minadoi 1595a). The work was also translated into Spanish (Minadoi 1588a) and German (under the title Persische historia [Frankfurt on Main, 1592]) and into Latin for inclusion in Bizari 1601 (in which Minadoi’s text occupies 515–622). I have not seen the German translation or the twentieth-century reissue of Hartwell’s translation—namely, Giovanni Tommaso Minadoi, The History of the Warres between the Turkes and the Persians (Tehran: Islamic Revolution Publications and Educational Organization, 1976)—which I cite from the RLG Union Catalog and WorldCat, respectively. A summary of the events of the war, which ended in 1590, is provided in Braudel 1976, 2:1166–74; a detailed account of the early campaigns of the war is also found in Kortepeter 1972, chapters 3 and 4, drawing on Turkish sources and also on Minadoi. The pioneering early nineteenth-century scholar of Ottoman history Joseph von Hammer based his account of the war primarily on sixteenth-century Turkish sources but also frequently cited Minadoi, noting the latter’s seven years’ residence in Syria, visits to Constantinople, interviews with eyewitnesses, and close relations with Venetian consuls in Aleppo. See Hammer 1829, vol. 4, books 37–39, with biographical note on Minadoi at 4:65. For a very thoroughly researched account of Minadoi’s family background and biography and a survey of his writings, see Samaden 1998. 86. Minadoi 1588b, L’autore a’ lettori, +4v–[+4ir]: “Il qual mio proponimento è stato favorito da tre privati, e estraordinarii mezi: Dall’auttorità di Theodoro Balbi, et di Giovanni Michele per lo Senato Venetiano Illustrissimi Consoli nella Soria, soggetti nobilissimi di Venetia, molto prudenti, e molto valorosi, i quali augustamente senza risparmio di spesa alcuna mi favorirono in questa, e in ogni altra sorte de studii, che io feci in que paesi: Dalla prattica ch’io tenni de Christoforo de Boni primo interprete delli detti Illustrissimi Signori, persona di valore, e di molta amicitia frà quelle nationi, e sopra tutto fedele et destro: Et dalla scienza di medicare, la quale non hebbi à schifo d’essercitare frà quelle genti, per poter, senza dar ad alcuno sospetione, penetrar ne gli avisi piu secreti, e piu importanti, col pigliar con questo mezo familiarità nelle principali case di quelle cittadi, nelle quali mi sono per sette anni quasi continovi trattenuto.” 87. Samaden 1998, 101, 103–6. On the Venetian consuls, see Steensgaard 1967; Faroqhi 1986. The statutes relating to medical practitioners are cited in Berchet 1866, 40, cap. LVIII: “Che li consoli che anderanno in Siria elleggano cappellano, ‹sico e ceroico” (1518, also provides for their salaries). For more on the salaries of these medical personnel, see 44, cap. LXXXIV (1522); 48, cap. CXV (a raise in salary); 50, cap. CXXIII (1611; another raise for the physician, with provision for a farmacista). On the earlier history of appointment of medical practitioners by civic of‹cials, see Nutton 1981; Palmer 1981. 88. F. Lucchetta 1997. On the of‹ce of the bailo more generally, see Dursteler 2001, with ample bibliography. 89. F. Lucchetta 1982, 45, quoting Ramusio’s will: “artium et medicine professor ac spectabilium mercatorum Venetorum phisicus Damasci conductus.” 90. Samaden 1998, 130–47. The preface to Minadoi 1610 bears the dateline “Udine, 1590”; the ‹rst disputation in this collection, De sudore sanguineo, occupies 1r–13v, with the conclusion about Christ on 12v–13v. 91. Minadoi 1600, 1. On this work, see Gadebusch Bondio 2005, 109–19. On Minadoi’s medical writings, see Samaden 1998, 158–64. In addition to Minadoi 1600, I have consulted Minadoi 1602 and 1603.


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92. F. Lucchetta 1964; [Alpago] 1991, editor’s introduction. On sixteenth- and seventeenth-century efforts to improve the translation and presentation of the Canon, see Siraisi 1987a. 93. Alpino 1735, 2.1, pp. 85–86: “Jacobus Manus Salodiensis, qui ante me septennio magna cum laude medicinam apud nationem Venetam fecerat, vir in lingua Arabica etiam doctissimus, quem ego Cairi offendi, retulit aliquando mihi se habuisse Arabicum dictionarium omnium nominum quae usui medicinae facerent, ipsumque Latinitate donavisse, additis ab ipso nonnullis observationibus, ut studiosorum animos ad majora excitaret, tum ut nomina Arabica quae in Serapionis, et Avicennae indice ex Bellonense depravata leguntur, emendarentur, quando illorum ne verbum quidem a nostris prolatum Arabes intelligant. His addo, ut de Arabum litteris aliquid in studiosorum gratiam proferam, ipsos habere litteras principales tantum numero septendecim, ex quibus deinde additis modo superius, modo inferius punctis tot alias constituunt, ut omnes sint viginti novem” (Alpago’s suggestions regarding transliteration follow in Alpino’s book). This passage is discussed and the reference to Alpago (termed “Bellonense” from his native town, Belluno) is identi‹ed in G. Lucchetta 1984, at 217. 94. F. Lucchetta 1997, especially 7–20. See also, with reference to the career of Salomon Ashkenazi, Russell 1990. 95. Sanuto 1879–1903, 6:57–58, 11:477–80; 15:355–58; 18:393–95, 395–96. The letters are discussed and Alpago’s authorship is con‹rmed in F. Lucchetta 1964, 16–25. 96. I have consulted the Italian version, namely Rota [1508]; another edition appeared in 1515. For the Latin and the French and German translations, which I have not seen, see G. Lucchetta 1980, 423. For Rota’s career at Bologna, see Dallari 1888–91, vol. 2. The treatise on gunshot wounds is Rota 1555. 97. Barsi 2001, 22–27. 98. Samaden 1998, 108–14 (Minadoi’s missions to Constantinople), 115–21 (parallels between Minadoi’s Historia and the relazioni of Balbi and, especially, of Michiel). See Micheli 1844. 99. Minadoi 1588b, 1: “Io scrivo i successi della guerra fra Amurat Re Turco, et Mahamet per sopra nome detto Codabanda Re Persiano, ambi fra barbari potentissimi, et bellicosissimi prencipi. Guerra non solo lunga et sanguinosa, ma anchora molto commodo, et molto opportuna alla Republica Christiana.” 100. On the early reports about Ismail and contacts between the Safavid ruler and Venice in 1509–10, see Brummett 1994, 29–50; 1996. On the impact in Italy of reports about contacts with Uzun Hasan in the ‹fteenth century, see Meserve 2003, 35–39; accounts of diplomatic missions to Uzun Hasan in the 1470s were still prominent in the collection Viaggi fatti da Vinetia, alla Tana, in Persia, in India, et in Costantinopoli (Venice, 1543); on the career of Uzun Hasan, see Woods 1999, 87–123. 101. For a general account of Ottoman and Safavid history in the sixteenth century, see Holt et al. 1970, 1A:324–53, 394–429; Morgan 1988, chapters 11–14; Savory 1980, 1–109. On the wars of the Ottoman Empire, see also Hess 1973; Guilmartin 1988; Murphey 1999, 3–6, 195. 102. Parry 1962, 279. 103. On various types of reports, letters, and other narratives, see Parry 1962, 276–80; on reports on current affairs in the East by Venetian diplomats and travelers, Libby 1978; on the rapid tranformation, beginning in the ‹fteenth century, of informa-

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tion from such accounts into various types of printed literary and rhetorical productions, Meserve 2006. 104. Sansovino 1600. The list of authors “de quali si sono tratte parte delle cose che si contengono in questi annali” follows the index at the front of the volume. The work was ‹rst published in 1560. 105. Giovio, Historiae, book 14, in Giovio 1957–85, 3:301–24. See Parry 1962. For Bodin’s comments (quoted in Parry 1962, 280), see Bodin 1951, 131; note 29 to the introduction in the present volume. An overview of Renaissance and early modern historical writing by Italian authors on the Ottoman Empire and contemporary Middle East is also provided in Cochrane 1981a, 324–37. For ‹fteenth- and sixteenth-century accounts of Persia by Italian travelers and merchants, see Piemontese 1982, 142–51. For an evaluation of the criticisms of Giovio as a historian by his contemporaries, see Zimmerman 1995a, 263–71. 106. Giovio, Historiae, book 14, in Giovio 1957–85, 3:301–24: the comparison of the two rulers occupies 313–15; the comparison of the two armies follows at 315–17 and 321–24. On the dating and circumstances of this portion of Giovio’s work, see Zimmerman 1995a, 25–27. 107. Giovio, Historiae, book 14, in Giovio 1957–85, 3:313: Primum omnium (ut praeclare constat), supra mutuum utriusque gentis odium ab avis patribusque per manus traditum, insana persuasione diducti inter se de sacrorum placitis altercantur. . . . Quamquam, non obscure dissimulata cupiditate, ad id unum sed diverso itinere contendant: ut, con‹rmatis auctisque opibus, tot regnorum termini quam latissime proferantur; quod ex professo Hysmaël ad Darii atque Xerxis, qui subacta Asia in Europam ingenti ausu traiecerint, et Selymus ad Alexandri Macedonis, qui regna Persarum everterit, magnitudinem et gloriam aspirent. Nec inanibus omnino votis: quum, honesto tuendae religionis nomine, Fortuna pari libidine ingenio eorum ambitioso, audaci immoderatoque intemperanter arrideat. Qua non absimili perturbatae religionis peste, a Luthero Saxone nuper invecta, Christianas quoque gentes inter se digladiari videmus: quasi coelum aliquo maligno sydere pacem et tranquillitatem infami huic saeculo prorsus invideat. 108. Minadoi 1588b, 1–2: “ . . . havendo ella data tempo a i campioni di Christo di rifrancare, et di accrescere le loro forze indebolite dalle guerre non meno straniere che civili. Opra veramente più divina che humana, essendosi fra Turchi deste nuove speranze di vittorie, con le quali, contro il costume di simili contentioni, si sono portate in lungo l’ire di questi prencipi, che convertite contro l’Europa, potevano render lo stato nostro turbulentissimo.” 109. Minadoi 1588b, 2: “con la lettura di questa historia . . . forse s’inanimaranno i Christiani prencipi a prender l’armi contro barbari, sotto li quali sono ridotte famose, e già potenti nationi”; 82: “Ben sete voi [participants in the First Crusade] degne, che sì come in cielo v’accolgono, e vi lodano quelle alme fatte di là cittadine; così qua giù vi cantasse, e vi celebrasse con degni versi, un sì grave, e sì degno scrittore.” Tasso’s Gerusalemme liberata appeared in 1575. On humanist crusade rhetoric in the ‹fteenth century, see Black 1985, 226–33; Meserve 2004; Bisaha 2004, 13–42. On the continued


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expression of crusading ideology in the sixteenth century, see Bisaha 2004, 174–81; on papal crusade exhortations and projects in the same period, Setton 1976–84, vol. 4. 110. Minadoi 1588b, +2r–v. 111. The rearrangement of the text in the revised edition is approximately as follows: Minadoi 1587, book 1, 1–104 = 1588b, books 1 and 3, 1–36, 79–119 Minadoi 1587, book 2, 105–201 = 1588b, books 4 and 5, 120–68, 169–201 Minadoi 1587, book 3, 202–319 = 1588b, books 6 and 7, 202–63, 264–98 Minadoi 1587, book 4, 320–60 = 1588b, book 8, 299–333 Minadoi 1588b, book 2, 37–78 (on Persia and the rise of Shiism), and book 9, 334–65 (on the war in 1585–86), include new material. There is, in addition, some internal rewriting within the various books. Of the other editions and translations listed in note 85 to the present chapter, the revised edition was the basis for the edition published in Venice in 1594 and the English and German translations. The edition published in Turin in 1588 and the Spanish translation (Minadoi 1588a) used the ‹rst edition. 112. See note 91 to this chapter. In addition to innumerable citations of Hippocrates, Galen, and other Greek medical sources, book 1 of Minadoi 1600 includes citations of Plato (1v, 14v, 15v, 24r), Aristotle (13r–v, 15v, 21r, 22r, 22v, and more), Ovid (24r), Homer (25r), Lucretius (127v), and Dante (11v). 113. For Renaissance claims about the origins of the Turks, see Meserve 2000; 2004, 25–31. Fuller treatment of the subject is found in Meserve 2001. I am very grateful to Margaret Meserve for supplying a copy of her dissertation. For Giovio’s evocation of Darius and Alexander, see note 107 to the present chapter. 114. Minadoi 1588b, book 2, 37–46. For the passage of Giovio criticized, see note 107 to the present chapter; it is not clear whether Giovio meant to claim that the religious difference itself started in the early sixteenth century or just to explain a cause of contemporary warfare. 115. Despite his admiration for Avicenna, Minadoi was not among those who recommended the introduction of an additional course at Padua using part of the Canon of Medicine as a textbook (he thought the material in question was being taught already). See Siraisi 1987a, 118. I have not seen Minadoi’s oration on Avicenna, discussed in Samaden 1998. 116. Minadoi 1588b, +2v: “Cosi feci, e feci anchora qualche non inutile fatico intorno alla geogra‹a, alla ricognitione de’ luoghi.” 117. This Corrado was or later became a member of the Milanese Senate; see Minadoi 1595b, 5. He is not to be identi‹ed with the humanist Quinto Mario Corrado, who died in 1575. 118. Minadoi 1588b, 296. 119. Minadoi 1588b, L’autore a’ lettori, +4v: “ho provate molte dif‹coltadi, e fatiche; sì per l’ignoranza de’ popoli, i quali non sapendo dirmi altro nome delle cittadi, delle regioni, delle campagne, de’ ‹umi, de’ monti, fuori che il barbaro, mi rendevano molto dif‹cile la ricognitione de’ luochi ne’ quali s’è fatta questa guerra; sì ancho perche mi bisognava haver l’occhio alla qualità delle genti, alcune volte bugiarde, dalle quali sogliono molte cose esser dette, molte esser taciute per li loro particolari interessi. Nondimeno ho cerco [sic] di far nel miglior modo per me possibile l’of‹tio mio, superando queste, e altre dif‹coltadi con l’assiduità nel chiederne a diversi in diversi

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luochi, per ritrovarli concordi, con l’aspettar, che il tempo stesso partorisce la verità; nè contentandomi mai ò del primo ò del secondo aviso, giusti‹car li primi con gli ultimi, col conferir insieme le testi‹cationi dell’una, e dell’altra parte; e in ‹ne col sottrager, senza rispetto di risco, di spesa, ò di fatica, ogni possibil particolare, da huomini stimati men bugiardi, di piu auttorità, e che piu erano intervenuti in quelli successi.” 120. Minadoi 1588b, 77: “Io harrei posto quì ‹ne a questo libro [book 2], se non mi fossero stati portati alcuni libri scritti, altri in Francese, altri in lingua Latina, altri con titolo di Comentarii, et altri d’Historia, sotto nomi di diversi auttori piu poeti, che historici, per quanto si può conoscere; ne li quali libri havendo io ritrovati molti mancamenti, cosi quanto alle cose delle opinione Persiane, et Turchesce, intorno alla loro bugiarda fede, come quanto alla ricognitione delle cittadi antiche, à i tempi delle cose seguite, alle fattione medesime, alli viaggi de gli esserciti, et à molti altri particolari; m’ha parso debito mio d’ammonir tutti coloro che legeranno dopo questa nostra età, e questi libri, e questa nostra Historia, che debbano andar molto cauti in leger cotali compositioni.” Commentarii perhaps refers to Dominicus Marius Niger’s Geographiae commentariorum libri IX (Basel, 1557), since Minadoi rejected Niger’s identi‹cation of “Tauris” (Tabriz) with the ancient Nigranoama (see note 125 to the present chapter). 121. Minadoi several times refers to information gained by interviewing “Maxutchan” (Maksud Han) and his son and af‹rms his con‹dence in their veracity; Consul Michiel also sought information from this of‹cial. See Minadoi 1587, 149, 153, 156, 231; Minadoi 1588b, 157, 160, 163, 328; Samaden 1998, 118 and note 119; Micheli 1844, 258–59, where the name is rendered “Masut Khan”; Walsh 1963. 122. On Knolles’s use of Minadoi, see Parry 2003, 13–14, 88, 98 (Knolles’s work was published in 1603). Remon’s version of Juan of Persia’s Relaciones made heavy use of Minadoi in book 2, although also including corrections by Don Juan of a few of Minadoi’s statements and, above all, his renderings of Persian names, which Don Juan thought Minadoi had mangled as a result of relying on Turkish informants; see Juan de Persia 1604, 3v, 60v, 74r, 89r–v; 1926, 19 (editor’s introduction), 36, 168, 180. For use and evaluations of Minadoi by historians of the Middle East working after 1800, see note 85 to the present chapter; Walsh 1963, 452–54; Parry 2003, 88 (“still held in high regard”). 123. On the changing status of ancient geography of the Middle East in the ‹fteenth and sixteenth centuries and the greater readiness of mapmakers than authors of European travel or historical accounts to abandon it, see respectively Meserve 2003; Brentjes 1999, 451–54. 124. Minadoi 1588b, 370: “parendomi, che questa sia materia assai importante in cotale Historia, trattandosi della ricognitione d’una città, per acquisto della quale si sono fatti quasi prencipalmente tutti quei movimenti di guerra.” 125. Minadoi 1588b, 369: “Tauris non è altrimenti Terva, come il Giovio scrive, ne Tigranoama, come il Negro [Dominicus Marius Niger], ne Tigranocerta, come altri; ma Ecbathana, come vuole l’Ortelio et l’Anania.” Ortelius 1570, map 50: “Tauris, olim Ecbatana, regum Persarum sedes” (the Safavid capital had actually moved to Qazvin in 1548). Anania 1582, 212: “Tabris, che corrottamente dicono Tauris, edi‹cata prima da Arsasat su’l monte Oronte; e poi ristorata da Seleuco; è la metropoli dell’imperio de’ Persi, anticamente chiamata Ecbatana.” D’Anania’s treatise was ‹rst published in 1573 and went into several early editions. Minadoi was also familiar with the work of the Venetian mapmaker and geographical author Giacomo Gastaldi (see Minadoi 1588b,


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++r), who produced modern maps included with the edition of Ptolemy’s Geography in Italian translation published in Venice in 1548 and contributed maps to Ramusio’s collection of travels; on Gastaldi, see Cosgrove 1992, especially 71, 74–75. 126. Minadoi 1588b, 370–83; the reference to Ramusio is at 374. 127. Löwenklau [Leunclavius] 1588, 391: “Tebrisium, nunc Tauris, admodum his annis innotuit, etiam vulgo, Turcorum stragibus aliquot nobilitatum inde usque a Sultani Soleimanis temporibus. Qui Ecbatana Mediae vocant, errare puto: quum Cedrinus eam Taurezium adpellans, in Persarmenia collocet, quam hodieque maiorem dicunt Armeniam. In huius meditullio Tebrisium recte Iovius ponit, ut male Chalcondyles urbem fecit Assyriorum: cuius interpres Tabrezen ut Cedrinianus Tabrezium, scripsit. Iovii sententiam haec Aythoni verba con‹rmant.” On Löwenklau (1541–94), see NDB 15:95–96; ADB 18:488–93. His work on Roman law in the Byzantine period is discussed in Troje 1971, 110–14, 264–74; his editions and translations of Byzantine historians are discussed in Pertusi 1967, 69–71 (my thanks to Anthony Grafton for this reference); for his work on Turkish history, see Parry 2003, 113–18. For his translations of Turkish chronicles, Löwenklau worked with an existing German translation and with the help of interpreters, but he also compared the results with Turkish originals and collected additional Turkish material of his own. 128. Löwenklau published his attack on Minadoi in an onomasticon, or guide to place-names, appended to Löwenklau 1591. At 867, for example: “Tauris, et Tebris, clara nobilisque civitas, Laonico Tabretze, Cedrino Taurezion, Taurizium, et eius interpreti Tabrezium. Minadois acriter, velut pro aris et focis dimicans hanc esse veterum adserit Ecbatana Mediae; cum quo equidem minime contendens, saltim pace ipsius aio, nec in Assyria cum Laonico ponendam, nec in Media cum Minadois quum Cedrinus, auctor idoneus et eruditus, quia 10 [sic], et paullo minus, annis vixit, eam collocet in Persarmenia, quam constat Armeniam esse maiorem; et Aythonus, in Armenia sanguine regio natus, nec multum Cedrino recentior, expresse statuat eamdem in Armenia maiori.” Minadoi reproduced the offending passages in Minadoi 1595b, 6–8. 129. Minadoi 1595b, 3. The dramatists and historians cited by Minadoi were Euripides (5), Sophocles (13), Aristophanes (37), Procopius (17), and Suidas (29), as well as Zonaras, Socrates, and Ruf‹nus (30). 130. Minadoi 1595b, 9: “dum scilicet Cedreni, et Aytoni auctoritatibus putat duodecim meas illas rationes mathematicas fere omnes sponte pessum ituras, me tacente suae imbecillitatis conditionem prodit.” 131. Minadoi 1595b, 11–12. 132. Minadoi 1595b, 15–27. At 27: “in re tam controversa et tam disputata eruditionem, et rerum geographicarum peritiam magis quam generis nobilitatem requiram.” As Minadoi was doubtless aware, sixteenth-century dialectical argument allowed the testimony of those “skilled in their own art” (see Serjeantson 1999, 202–8).

conclusion 1. See the useful summary of the historiography of the history of medicine in Lammel 2005, 22–47, especially 27. 2. On Spon (1647–85), see Etienne and Mossière 1993, with bibliography of Spon’s publications compiled by Henriette Pommier at 57–78; Spon 2004.

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3. Malpighi 1686–87, vol. 1, Epistolae (separately paginated), pp. 21–35, letter dated November 1681, to Jacob Spon, “medicinae doctori et Lugdunensi anatomico accuratissimo.” Inc.: “Percunctanti tibi, vir doctissime, ac eruditissime, num aliquid novi editis jam exercitationibus meis addendum supersit, cum typographus, quem innuis, dictis opusculis novam paret lucem.” Malpighi 1975, 2:861–62; Adelmann 1966, 1:418–34; Momigliano 1950, 299–300. 4. For Malpighi as a collector, see Adelmann 1966, 1:293; for Malpighi and Andrea Mariani, the author of Ruinarum Romae epigrammata extantium vel in sacra loca transformaturum (Venice, 1625) (which I have not seen), ibid., 1:123–25. Malpighi 1686–87, vol. 1, Epistolae (separately paginated), p. 35: “Haec sunt ea, vir doctissime, quae tibi indicanda erant, et quae tuis exculta ac ‹rmata observationibus stabunt, diuque vivent. Tibi enim familiare est lapides ipsos et priscorum monumenta injuriis temporum attrita, nova eruditionis luce donare, et ab interitu vindicare diu vivas, dum me tui addictissimum pro‹teor. Vale.” I am grateful to Domenico Bertoloni Meli for pointing out the possible in›uence of Mariani on Malpighi and for helpful discussion of the contact between Malpighi and Spon. 5. Etienne’s introduction to Spon 2004, 9–11; Guillemain 1996. 6. Bausch was the author of a history of Schweinfurt during the Thirty Years’ War; see Wissenschaft und Buch in der Frühen Neuzeit 1998, 9, 49, 65–73. My thanks to Gianna Pomata for this reference. 7. Leigh 1700; MacGregor 1994; Brockliss 2002. For an example of a traditional collection of medical biographies published in the mid-eighteenth century, see Broman 1996, 15–17. 8. Webster 1983; Jordanova 1999, 2001; Broman 1996, 136–43; Lammel 2004; Lammel 2005, 66–263; Jardine 1997; Huisman and Warner 2004. 9. One notable recent contribution is Maclean 2000.

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INDEX

accessus ad auctores, 79, 81 Achillini, Alessandro, 111 Adam, Melchior, 110, 112, 300n29 Aesculapius, 85 Af‹dati, Accademia degli, 147 aging world, concept of, 26, 27, 34, 36, 45, 58–59 Agnadello, Battle of, 138 Agricola, Georg, 223, 341n126 Albertus Magnus, 201–2 alchemy, alchemists, 130, 185, 242 Alciato, Andrea, 151, 158, 309n18, 311n33, 313n46, 316n79 antiquarianism of, 147–48 Capella and, 149 Cardano and, 146 Alderotti, Taddeo, 121 Aldrovandi, Ulisse, 43, 172, 175 Aldus Manutius, 149, 200 Aleppo, 247, 249, 250 Alexandria, 243–44, 345–46n39 Alpago, Andrea, 248–50 Alpino, Prospero, 345n35, 346n45, 346n46, 346–47n47, 347n50, 347–48n58, 348n59, 351n93 ancient Egyptian medicine and, 241, 244

De medicina Aegyptiorum, 233–34, 235–36, 238, 239–40 De medicina methodica, 238–39 interest of, in Arabic language, 249 Methodism (medical) and, 347n53 Rerum Aegyptiarum libri, 237 Amazons, 28, 97–98 anatomy, 4, 25–42, 55–62, 263, 274n35, 275n40 aging world, concept of, and, 26, 27, 34, 45, 58–59 autopsy and, 15, 69–72, 187, 189–90, 191–92 critiques of Galenic, 25–26, 32–35 diminution of body, concept of, and, 27–28, 29, 30, 35, 58–59 giants and, 27–28, 35–42 Liuzzi and, 137, 165 Malpighi and, 266 Mercuriale and, 63 Rondelet and, 126 at University of Rome, 172 Anaxagoras, 30 animals, as supposed inventors of medicine, 234, 236 Annius of Viterbo, 27–28, 139, 213 anti-Arabism, 122, 129, 130, 137, 165, 205

421

422 anti-Paracelsianism, 246, 259 antiquarianism, antiquaries, 41, 206–17, 243, 264, 267, 278n70 Alciato and, 147–48 Bacci and, 174–75, 182–86, 192–93, 265, 323n68 Belon and, 229, 233 Benedetti and, 31 T. Bartholin and, 277n65 Cagnati and, 174–75, 176, 182, 192–93 Castiglione and, 152–53, 154 Clusius and, 119 de‹ned, 10–11 B.Giovio and, 148 Goropius and, 36–37 humanism and, 2, 4, 7, 157, 212 Lange and, 54, 68 Lazius and, 194, 206–7, 208, 209–10, 213–14 Ligorio and, 49–50 Maioragio and, 151, 154 in medical orations, 115, 116 Mercuriale and, 43, 49–51, 53, 54–55, 102 Minadoi and, 252 Naudé and, 128, 138 Panvinio and, 42, 215 physical culture and, 42–55, 185–86 public health and, 177–84 in Renaissance culture, 8–11, 28, 138 in Rome, 168–71, 195 of Spon and Malpighi, 266 antiquities, ancient monuments, 170, 195, 208, 229, 231, 267. See also coins; inscriptions; medals ecclesiastical attitutes to pagan, 171 of Egypt, 226, 259 Farnese and, 169 of German-speaking lands, 223 Lazius and, 208 Löwenklau and, 257 Worm and, 41 Antoine of Lorraine, Duke, 138, 139, 140 Apian, Philip, 118 apothecaries, 172, 174, 304n90 Appian, 104 aqueducts, 171, 179, 186 Arabic language, 249

Index Arabic science and medicine, 130, 232, 237, 242, 244. See also Avicenna medical authors, 230, 349n79 archaeology, 265–67 architecture, ancient Roman, 50, 54 Argenterio, Giovanni, 69, 341n126 Ariosto, Ludovico, 160 Aristotelianism, 6, 9, 15, 74, 82, 170 Aristotle, 9, 29, 32, 61, 89, 162 Politics, 100 Problemata, 58, 96 Arluno, Bernardino, 150–51, 152, 153 History of Milan, 150 Arluno, Giovanni Francesco, 150–52, 153 Arnald of Villanova, 130, 286n22 ars consultandi, 69 ars historica, 9, 10, 63, 262 Articella, 73 Asclepius, 235 Asia, characteristics attributed to peoples of, 98–99 astrology, astrologers, 6, 175, 181, 199, 245, 313n48 Cardano and, 88, 132, 143, 144, 152–53, 163–64 disease and, 31, 327n15 genitures, 109, 152–53, 159, 299n18 Hippocratic commentary and, 86–88 judicial, 125 Settala and, 96, 291n84 astronomy, astronomers, 87, 291n87, 327n14 athletics. See physical culture and exercise, Greco-Roman atomism, 238, 239 Augenio, Orazio, 68 Augustus, 179 Aulus Gellius, 82 Ausonius Mosella, 46 autobiography, 108–9, 132, 298n13. See also biography, bio-bibliography autopsy, 15, 69–72, 187, 189–90, 191–92 Aventinus, Johannes, 199 Avicenna, 31, 82, 353n115 Canon of Medicine, 74, 116, 122, 137, 165, 249

Index Bacci, Andrea, 169, 171, 174–76, 323n52, 323n53, 323n54, 323n55, 324n73, 324n74, 324n79, 324n80 antiquarianism of, 174–75, 182–86, 192–93, 265, 323n68 on baths, 184–86, 325n83, 325n84, 325n86 Del Tevere, 178–79, 183, 322n45 De naturali vinorum historia, de vinis Italiae et de conviviis antiquorum, 182 De thermis, 178, 184, 193 on diet, 181 Mercuriale and, 186 Orsini and, 324n70 as papal physician, 173, 320n24 I. Salviani and, 172 on theriac, 188, 325n92 on Tiber river, 168, 180 Bacon, Francis, 107 Badaudus, 185 Balbi, Teodoro, 247 Baldini, Baccio, 94–96, 101–2, 197, 293n118, 293n125, 295n144 Masque of the Genealogy of the Gods and of the Gentiles, 95 temperament and, 98–99 theory of climate and, 100 Banister, John, 275n39 Historie of Man, sucked from the sappe of the most approved Anathomistes, 34–35 Barbaro, Daniele, 50, 280n100 Baronio, Cesare, 10 Bartholin, Caspar, 34, 275n37, 277n64, 277n66 Bartholin, Thomas, 34, 39–41, 275n37, 276n60, 277n65 Historiarum anatomicarum rariorum Centuria I et II, 41 Bartolotti, Gian Giacomo, 116, 120–21 Barzizza, Cristoforo, 114 baths, Roman, 46, 49, 54, 179, 184–87 Bacci and, 184–86, 325n84, 325n86 Baudouin, François ars historica, 10 Bauhin, Caspar, 34, 274–75n36 Bausch, Johann Lorenz, 267

423

Belon, Pierre, 227, 246, 342n10, 343n20, 344n27–29, 347n55 antiquarianism of, 229, 233, 344n24 cautery and, 238 Cronique de Pierre Belon de Mans, medecin, 228–29 mumia and, 259 On the Admirable Works of the Ancients, 229–31 Benedetti, Alessandro, 31, 139–40, 195, 215, 264, 307n1 Anatomice, 137 Diaria de bello Carolino, 138, 149–50 Benzi, Sozzino, 123 Benzi, Ugo, 123, 303n73 Bernier, François, 226, 342n3 Berosus, 139, 213 Beza, Theodore Icones, 111 Bible, 27, 36, 63, 138, 165–66 Acts of the Apostles, 166 Ecclesiastes, 166 Genesis, 37 giants in the, 37, 39 bibliography, 78–79, 112, 118, 201. See also biography, bio-bibliography Bienvieni, Antonio, 68, 71 biographical collections, 109–13, 129, 201, 204, 299n19, 300n28 biography, bio-bibliography, 95, 106–33, 205, 264, 267, 297n3, 297n4. See also autobiography; bibliography of Avicenna, 122, 165 Baldini and, 197 Galen and, 80, 81, 82, 121–22 of Hippocrates, 79–89 history and, 107–8, 298n7 by Joubert, 123, 125–27 La Corde and, 88–89 L’Alemant and, 84, 85–86 in medical orations, 113–19, 131, 132 Naudé and, 127–28, 129–30 by Plancy, 123–24, 127 Rondelet and, 106, 125–27 Biondo, Flavio Italia illustrata, 199 bitumen, 230, 232

424

bloodletting, 129, 238, 239–40, 347– 48n58 Blotius, Hugo, 218, 222, 338n110, 340n122 Bodin, Jean, 11–12, 18–19, 63, 251, 264, 271n29 Methodus ad facilem historiarum cognitionem, 9, 61 theory of climate and, 94 Boece, Hector, 156 Boissard, Jean Jacques, 111 bones. See osteology Bonet, Théophile Sepulchretum, 70 Bon‹ni, Antonio, 339–40n120 Rerum Ungaricarum decades quatuor, cum dimidia, 221 Borch, Oluf, 246 Borel, Pierre, 197, 327n8 botany, 4, 74, 220, 235–36, 263 medicinal, 119 Brassicanus, Johann Ludwig, 209 Brissot, Pierre, 129 Brunfels, Otto, 122 Catalogus illustrium medicorum sive de primis medicinae scriptoribus, 113 Bruni, Leonardo, 9, 157, 158 Buda, siege of, 210–12, 222, 331n48 Budé, Guillaume, 123 Burke, Peter, 2 Busbecq, Ogier Ghislain de, 217 Byzantine empire, rulers of, 205 Cadamusto, Alvise, 185 Caesar, 57, 61, 185 De bello gallico, 196 Cagnati, Marsilio, 171, 215, 320–21n27, 325n91, 325n95, 325n96, 326n97 antiquarianism of, 174–75, 176, 182, 192–93 case histories and, 188–89 De continentia, 182 gymnastica and, 186 on Hippocrates, 187 Medical Disputation on the Flooding of the Tiber, 180 Observationes variae, 176, 181, 189 On the Roman Air, 180, 181

Index Petroni and, 169, 173 on Tiber river, 178, 180 Caius, John, 131, 197 Callisthenes of Olynthus, 229 Calvet, Esprit, 267 Camera Apostolica, 174 canonization, 70, 175, 190, 191–92, 326n109, 326n110 Capella, Galeazzo, 148–49, 311n31, 311n32, 311n33 Commentarii, 149 De bello Mediolanensi, 152 Capivaccio, Girolamo, 69 Capra, Galeazzo. See Capella, Galeazzo Cardano, Girolamo, 94, 141–61, 292n95, 313n46, 313n47, 313n48, 314n57, 341n126 on Amazons, 97 astrology and, 88, 132, 143, 144, 152–55, 163–64 on authenticity of Hippocratic corpus, 75 Bacci and, 175 Borel on, 197 commentary on Ptolemy’s Tetrabiblos by, 144–45, 293n115 contacts with Milanese historians and antiquaries, 145–55 De arcano aeternitatis, 144, 163, 316n86 De consolatione, 152 De rerum varietate, 156 De subtilitate, 154 De venenis, 164 De vita propria, 106, 108, 132 Encomium of Geometry, 144 Encomium of Medicine, 145, 165, 167 Encomium of Nero, 143, 144, 154, 155, 157–58, 159, 162, 308n1 on Galen, 160, 161–63, 165 P. Giovio and, 144, 155, 315n64 Hippocratic commentary by, 78, 82, 89, 100, 154, 290n66 history of medicine and, 165–67 Maioragio and, 153–54, 312n42 on optimati, 159, 316n80 Paralipomena, 160, 317n91, 317n104, 317n105

Index in Pavia, 145, 146, 147 Pellegrini and, 8 on plague, 32 Proxeneta, 144, 154, 265 as reader and writer of history, 143–45, 155, 314n60, 315n66 on Scythians, 98 cardinals, 184, 342n10. See also speci‹c cardinals Carion, Johann, 2 Carne, Edward, 185 Cartier, Jacques Relation, 70 cartography. See maps, mapping Casaubon, Isaac, 71–72, 242, 286n22 case histories, 15, 70, 169, 263, 347n50 in Hippocratic Epidemics, 89–93 sacred and profane, 187–93 Cassiodorus Chronica, 202 Castellanus, Petrus, 113 Castiglione, Bonaventura, 147–48, 150, 152–53, 310n22 Gallorum Insubrum antiquae sedes, 148 Catholic reformists, 184. See also Counter-Reformation cautery, 238 Cavenago, Giovanni Ambrogio, 153 Céard, Jean, 36 cedar resin, 232, 344n30 Cellius, Erhard, 118, 128, 300n28 Celsus, 13–14, 15, 31–32, 120, 131, 178 De medicina, 12 Celtis, Conrad, 195, 199–200, 223, 328n21 Germania illustrata, 199 Censorinus, 245 Chacon, Pedro, 50, 175, 183–84, 324n70 Chaldiran, Battle of, 251 Champier, Symphorien, 122, 137–40, 264, 307n1, 308n11, 308n14 De medicinae claris scriptoribus, 113 La nef des dames, 138 Le recueil ou croniques des hystoires des royaulmes daustrasie, 140 Le triumphe du tres Chrestien roy de France Loys XII, 139 The Order of Chivalry, 139

425

Charlemagne, 57, 276n57, 283n128 Charles V, emperor, 150, 159, 181 Charles VIII, king, 138 Chasseneuz, Barthelemy, 185 Chif›et, Jean-Jacques, 36, 197 chorography, 96, 154, 185, 196, 199, 213 Castiglione and, 147–48 Lazius and, 194, 209, 214, 215–17, 336n93 chronicles, 9, 14, 129, 147, 205, 309–10n19 by Champier, 138–39 disease in, 66, 104 giants in, 39, 40 Nuremberg Chronicle, 1–2, 30 of pseudo-Turpin, 276n57 of Rolandino of Padua, 271 Turkish, 258 of Zonaras, 330n39 Chronicon Carionis, 1, 2 Ciceri, Francesco, 148, 151, 153, 154, 312n44 Cicero, 9, 153, 156–57, 160, 161 Orator, 151 civil history, 19, 105, 112, 140, 196, 249–60 Bacci and, 176, 193 Benedetti and, 138 Cagnati and, 187 Cardano and, 142 Cuspinianus and, 198, 201 Lazius and, 194, 195 Clement of Alexandria, 120, 243 Stromateis, 234 climate, 28, 35, 55, 56, 57, 93–102. See also environmentalism, Hippocratic Alpino on Egyptian, 239 theory of, 58, 61, 94, 100–101, 196 clothing, ancient, 215, 216, 336n91 Clusius, Carolus (Charles de l’Ecluse), 119, 126, 218 Clüver, Philip, 215 Germania antiqua, 58, 60 coffee, 239 coins, 131, 170, 200, 213, 221, 266 Coiter, Volcher, 70 collections, collecting, 175, 265, 268. See also antiquities, ancient monuments; coins; inscriptions; medals College of Physicians (Rome), 172, 174 Colombo, Realdo, 172

426

Colonna, Ascanio, Cardinal, 173, 184 Colonna, Fabio, 284n149 Columella, 58 Comestor, Petrus, 160, 161 commentaries, Hippocratic, 72–79, 86–88, 90–91, 93, 95 by Cardano, 75, 78, 82, 89, 100, 154, 290n66 by Galen, 12, 63–64, 75, 80, 81–82, 89, 162, 292n96 by L’Alemant, 84, 85, 87–88, 94, 101–2, 291n87, 291n88, 291n89, 293n115 by Mercuriale, 77, 91–92, 287–88n47 by Settala, 87, 96, 293–94n128 Commynes, Philippe, 130 Conring, Hermann, 4, 259, 282n124, 284n145, 284n146, 348n71, 348–49n72, 349n73, 349n74, 349n76, 349n77 aging world, concept of, and, 58–59 ancient Egyptian medicine and, 245–46 F. Colonna and, 284n149 De habitu corporum, 56, 59–61 on the German body, 26–27, 55–62, 215, 283n139, 283n141, 283n143 on giants, 56, 57, 282n127 history of medicine and, 242–44, 265 de Orta and, 349n79 consilia, 13, 66, 70, 71, 92, 187 collections of, 65, 67 as form of case history, 188, 189 Constantinople, 249, 250, 266 consultationes, medical, 67. See also consilia Contile, Luca, 147 Cordus, Valerius, 230, 341n126 Corio, Bernardino, 149–50 Cornarius, Diomedes, 207, 331n51 Cornarius, Janus, 78, 341n126 Corvinus, Matthias, 130, 199, 202, 205, 221 Cosimo I, Duke, 94–95, 96 cosmography, 200 Counter-Reformation, 170–71, 191 court historians, 208, 209, 217, 264, 332n55, 336n94 court physicians, 18, 84, 196, 217, 226, 263. See also papal physicians

Index Lange, 68 Savonarola, 66 courts, 14, 66, 94, 95, 149, 197 of Habsburg dynasty (Vienna), 195–96, 198, 199, 217, 223, 327n15 Hungarian, 202, 221 Lazius and, 208, 210, 264, 332n55 of Louis XI, 130 papal, 2, 19, 173 Couzinet, Marie-Dominique, 12 Crato von Krafftheim, Johann, 117, 202, 341n126 Crescenzi, Pietro de’, 222, 341n126 Crisciani, Chiara, 13 Croeser, Herman, 89 Crooke, Helkiah, 34 cures, 65, 71, 174, 187, 189, 326n109 Cuspinianus, Johannes, 195, 197–206, 208, 330n36, 330n37, 331n42, 341n126 antipapalism of, 206, 223–24 Caesares, 198, 202, 204–6, 330n40, 330–31n41 Celtis and, 199–200 Consules, 198, 202, 204 correspondents of, 328n21 historical method of, 202–4, 329– 30n34 Oath, 201 as teacher, 198, 327n11, 328n17 Damascus, 249–50 Da Monte, Giambattista, 76–77, 84, 287n41, 290n72, 292n102, 340n126 Hippocratic commentary by, 90–91 d’Anania, Giovanni Lorenzo, 257 Danube Sodality, 200, 328n19 d’Aramon, Gabriel, 227 d’Avlos, Alfonso, 153, 309n16 de l’Ecluse, Charles (Carolus Clusius), 119, 126, 218 Democritus, 84, 85, 92, 235 De morbis popularibus. See Hippocrates, Epidemics Despars, Jacques, 104 d’Este, Borso, 14 de Tournon, François, Cardinal, 229, 342n10

Index Deutsche Akademie der Naturforscher Leopoldina, 267 De vita et moribus philosophorum, 13 diet, 60, 177, 181–82, 239, 320n26 religious fasting and, 182 diminution of body, concept of, 27, 28–30, 35, 58–59 dining, ancient, 182, 183, 280n98 Diodorus Siculus, 98, 120, 144, 272n5 Diogenes Laertius, 107 Dionysius Alexandrinus De situ orbis, 200 Dionysius of Halicarnassus, 104 Dioscorides, Pedanius, 232, 236, 338n111 Anicia Juliana codex, 219–20, 222, 337n107 diplomacy, 202, 227, 249–50 disease, 5, 26, 35, 66, 145, 174 air quality and, 103–4, 181 astrology and, 31, 327n15 bathing as prevention of, 186 case histories and, 187, 188, 189 causation, theories of, and, 103, 104, 180–81 contagion, 103, 104 epidemic, 27, 164–65 during siege of Buda, 211–12 disease environment, 177, 180, 239 dissection, 13, 69, 126, 137, 172, 245. See also anatomy; autopsy dogmatic medicine, 237, 238 Dondi, Jacopo, 14, 271n24 doxography, 265 Dryander, Johann, 115 Dubois, Jacques. See Sylvius, Jacobus Dudith, Andreas, 117 Du Laurens, André, 34, 275n38 Dürer, Albrecht, 205 Ecbatana, 255, 257 ecclesiastical history, 10, 156, 171, 212 education. See medical education; universities Egnazio, Giovanni Battista, 23 Egypt, 225, 231, 235–36, 237–39, 241, 344n24

427

accounts of sixteenth century, 233–34, 236, 238 ancient medicine of, 243–46, 259, 345–46n39 antiquities of, 226, 259 De medicina Aegyptiorum and, 233–34, 239–40 embalming and funerary practices in ancient, 229, 230, 232, 243, 245, 344n30 history of medicine and, 227, 233–46 Elichmann, Johann, 243 emblems, 218–19, 313n48 empiricism, 3, 4, 188, 223, 227, 238, 262 encyclopedism, 9, 143, 145, 153, 218, 301–2n47 Bacci and, 185 biographical collections and, 107, 109 history of medicine and, 115, 120 Maffei and, 23 Mercuriale and, 103 Naudé and, 128 engineering projects, ancient, 179–80 environmentalism, Hippocratic, 91, 95, 163, 164, 177, 211 physiology and, 56, 75, 93, 97, 99 Eobanus of Hesse Chorus illustrium medicorum, 113 epidemics. See disease; plague epidemiology, 17, 24, 32, 75, 169, 181 epistolae medicinales. See medical epistles Erasistratus, 131 Esteve, Pedro Jaime, 85, 87, 92 Estienne, Henri, 218, 219, 338n111 ethnography, 97, 196, 199, 264 Euripides, 30 Eustachi, Bartolomeo, 172 Evagrius Scholasticus, 104 exemplary history, 155–63, 167, 261 examples, exempla, 24, 66, 196, 223 critiques of, 262, 265 exercise. See physical culture and exercise, Greco-Roman experience, 13, 157, 180 experienta, 13, 65 experimenta, 13, 65, 72

428 Faber, Jakob, 83 Fabrizi d’Acquapendente, Girolamo De formato foetu, 65 Facio, Bartolomeo, 110, 299n21 Falloppia, Gabriello, 33, 34, 274n32 Farnese, Alessandro, Cardinal, 42, 43, 47, 53, 169 Fasti Capitolini, 11, 204, 330n35 Ferdinand I, emperor, 223, 264, 332n55 Lazius and, 195–96, 206–7, 208, 210–11 Fernandez, Gonzalo La historia general delas Indias, 174 Fernel, Jean, 123–25, 300n27, 304n83, 340n126 Medicina, 304n78 Physiologia, 125 Universa medicina, 124, 125 Ferrari, Giovanni Battista, 175 Ficino, Marsilio, 111, 137, 222, 341n126 Firmicus Maternus, 245 ›oods and ›ood control (Tiber), 173, 177–78, 179–81 Foreest, Pieter van, 68–69 Fracastoro, Girolamo, 31, 103, 187 Francis I, France, 72, 227 Frederick II, Emperor, 204 Frederick III, Emperor, 199, 327n16 Fregoso, Battista (Fulgosus), 23 Freher, Paulus Theatrum, 109 Frijhoff, Willem, 7 Fuchs, Leonhart, 74–75, 118, 341n126 Fumanelli, Antonio, 122, 187 funeral orations. See orations funerary monuments, 229, 231 Galen, 120, 275n40, 276n60, 278n71, 292n97, 345–46n39 Ars, 77 autobiographical elements in writing of, 108, 270n20 biography and, 80, 81–82, 121–22, 162 Cardano on, 161–63, 165 critiques on anatomy of, 25–26, 32–34 De ingenio sanitatis, 44 disease and, 31 Egyptian medicine and, 236, 240

Index exercise and, 46, 51, 187 Hippocratic commentary by, 12, 63–64, 75, 81–82, 89–90, 162 L’Alemant and, 98–100 Methodus medendi, 12, 15, 188 On Prognosis, 12, 74 That the Habits of the Soul Follow the Temperament of the Body, 99 Therapeutica, 5 Galenism, Galenic medicine, 15, 44, 124, 160, 177, 188 Mercuriale and, 52–53 Naudé and, 129, 130 Galeotto Marzio of Narni, 130 Galilei, Galileo, 43 gardens, 171 botanical, 172, 236 Garzoni, Giovanni, 108, 298n10 Gasser, Achilles, 197 genealogy, 170, 198, 204 of Austrian nobility, 213, 214, 221 of Habsburgs, 199–200, 212 of Milanese nobility, 310n25 genitures. See under astrology Gentile da Foligno, 113–14 geography, geographers, 213, 214, 226, 255–56, 257–59 German history, 199, 213 Germans, characteristics attributed to early, 99–100, 215 Gessner, Conrad, 341n126 Bibliotheca universalis, 212 giants, 27–28, 35–42, 97, 156, 272n6, 273n11 Antwerpianus, 37 biblical, 37, 39 Conring and, 56, 57, 283n143 supposed tooth of, 37, 41 Theutobochus, 36 gigantism, 40, 41 Gilles, Pierre, 227, 342n10 Giovanna of Austria, 95 Giovanni di Marco da Rimini, 14 Giovio, Benedetto, 148, 149, 311n33 Giovio, Paolo, 2, 158, 195, 260, 264, 353n114 Bodin and, 19, 271n29

Index Cardano and, 144, 155, 315n64 Elogia, 109, 111, 299n24 Histories of His Own Times, 1, 226, 352n107 Lives of the Twelve Visconti, 111 Middle Eastern history by, 254, 257, 258, 353n114 Sambucus and, 341n126 Glardon, Philippe, 230–31 Gorgias, 84 Goropius Becanus, Johannes, 39, 197, 276n51, 341n126 Gigantomachia, 36–38 Grafton, Anthony, 9 Granvelle, Antoine Perrenot de, Cardinal, 54 Gratian, 160 Grünpeck, Joseph, 199, 327n15 Guainerio, Antonio, 185 guiac (lignum sanctum), 174 Guicciardini, Francesco, 9, 149, 163, 265, 311n31, 315n70 Considerazioni, 157 Ricordi, 157 on Tacitus, 158, 316n77 Guilandinus, Melchior, 227, 235–36, 239–40, 348n59 Guy de Chauliac Chirurgia magna, 13 gymnastica. See also physical culture and exercise, Greco-Roman: de‹nitions of by Cagnati, 186 by Mercuriale, 45, 51–52 Habsburg dynasty, 214, 220 court of (Vienna), 195–96, 198, 199, 223, 327n15 Haller, Albrecht von, 176 Hammerstein, Notker, 56 Harvey, Gabriel, 109–10 Harvey, William, 55, 275n37, 275n40 Herberstein, Sigismund von, 98, 218 Rerum Moscoviticarum commentarii, 208–9 Hermes Trismegistus, 234, 241–43, 246, 259

429

Hernandez, Francisco, 342n2 The Antiquities of New Spain, 225–26 Herodotus, 15, 120, 231, 243, 245, 344n24 Amazons and, 97–98 in biography of Hippocrates, 84 Herophilus, 131 hieroglyphs, 231, 243, 349n75 Hippocrates, Hippocratic corpus, 29, 79–89, 178, 235, 241, 290n74, 337n104. See also commentaries, Hippocratic Airs Waters Places, 28, 33, 34, 56, 57, 59, 73–74, 75, 76, 78, 86, 87, 88, 93–102, 163, 177, 287n28 On Ancient Medicine, 81 Aphorisms, 32, 73, 77, 188 The Art, 81 De ›atibus, 94 Epidemics, 15, 63, 73–75, 76–78, 87, 89–93, 187–89, 193, 244, 287n28 Hippocratic pseudepigrapha and, 15, 120, 201, 289n58 On Human Nature, 77, 89 Mercuriale and, 46, 64 the Oath, 75, 84, 85 On the Diseases of Women, 81, 82, 88 Opera (1526), 83 Places in Man, 89 Hippocratic-Galenic medicine, 24, 177. See also Galenism, Galenic medicine historiae. See case histories historia naturalis. See natural history historical method, 6, 142–43, 213, 264, 270n10 Cuspinianus and, 202–4, 221, 336n94 Minadoi and, 255–57, 259, 265 historiography, historiographers, 3, 10, 26, 149, 254, 268, 307n114 Bartolotti and, 121 Bodin and, 94 Conring and, 61 imperial historicus, 196–97, 208, 217, 264, 332n55 jurists as, 10 Lazius and, 207–8, 209, 332n55 Sambucus as, 196, 217, 221, 336n94 history of medicine. See medicine, history of

430

Hizler, Georg, 118, 302n58 Homer, 160, 241, 243 Horapollo, 245 hospitals, 319n22 San Giacomo (Rome), 174 Santo Spirito (Rome), 172, 176, 319n21 hot springs, 184–85, 324n77 Hroswitha of Gandersheim, 199 humanism, humanists, humanistic studies, 3, 64, 198–206, 261, 263. See also medical humanism ancient texts and, 9, 94, 107 antiquarianism and, 2, 4, 7, 157, 212 of Europeans in the Middle East, 226, 227, 233, 236, 257, 259 French, 130–32, 139 German, 198–200, 265, 327–28n16 in Milan, 147, 149, 156–57, 158 philology and, 4, 7, 54, 138, 263 Renaissance medicine and, 4–8 rhetoric and, 114–15 Sambucus and, 217–18, 223 Savonarola and, 66–67 scholasticism and, 3, 6 human origins and early society, accounts of, 27–28 Hungary, 207–8, 210–12, 220, 331– 32n54 court of, 202, 221 Huttich, Johann, 220–21 illustrations, 41, 203, 216, 220, 276n55, 299n24 in biographical collections, 110–11 in De arte gymnastica, 47–50, 53, 280n97 in Germania antiqua, 60 of Ramusio’s relief, 50 Imperiale, Giovanni, 110–11 imperial historicus. See under historiography, historiographers imperial physicians. See court physicians Ingegno, Alfonso, 158 inscriptions, 170, 200, 213, 266, 276n55, 331–32n54 Alciato and, 147, 148 Bacci and, 186

Index Benedetti and, 138 Lazius and, 207 institutional histories, 197 intelligence gathering, 249–50 Introductio seu medicus, 235 Isidore of Seville, 85 Islam, 137, 205, 227, 237, 254, 353n114 Ismail, Shah, 249, 251, 351n100 Italian wars, 137–39, 140, 143 Jacopo da Forlì, 114 Jehan, Shah, 226 Jesus Christ, 165–66, 183 Jewish physicians, 249 Johannes Alexandrinus, 244 Jordanes, 205 Jouanna, Jacques, 12 Joubert, Laurent, 106, 123, 125–27, 303n75 On the Quali‹cations of a Future Excellent Physician, 117 Opera latina, 123 Juan de Persia, 256, 354n122 Junius, Hadrianus, 196, 276n55, 283n128, 341n126 Batavia, 38–39, 264 Epistolae, 38 jurists, 116, 150, 200, 208, 209 in biographical collections, 108, 110, 112 as historians, 10, 19, 270n10 al-Juzjani, Abu Ubayd (Sorsanus), 122 Khodabanda, Mohammed, Shah, 246, 252 Knolles, Richard History of the Turks, 256 La Corde, Maurice, 82, 88–89, 93, 289n64, 290n67, 292n93 Ladislas of Hungary and Bohemia, 202 L’Alemant, Adrien, 94, 98–100, 290n74, 293n116, 294n136, 294n137, 294–95n139 Hippocratic commentary by, 84, 85, 87–88, 101–2, 291n87, 291n88, 291n89, 293n115 Lammel, Hans-Uwe, 268

Index Lange, Johann, 36, 53–54, 245, 285n12, 346n41 medical epistles of, 68, 235, 241 La Sapienza. See universities: Rome Last Supper, 50, 183, 280n98 law, 8, 55, 94, 119, 161, 209. See also jurists legal humanism and, 9, 10 Lazius, Wolfgang, 194, 206–17, 224, 265, 333n67, 333–34n68 ancient clothing and, 215, 216, 336n91 as chorographer, 197, 209, 214, 215–17, 333n66, 336n93 as collector of inscriptions and manuscripts, 331–32n54, 333n65, 335n77 Commentarii rerum Graecarum, 213–14 as court historian, 207–8, 264, 332n55 “Decades rerum austriacarum,” 210 De gentium aliquot migrationibus, 213, 214, 221 Ferdinand I and, 195–96, 206–7, 208, 210–11 on genealogy, 221, 339n117 Sambucus and, 208, 219, 222, 341n126 siege of Buda and, 210–12, 331n48 on travel writing, 214, 336n87 Vienna Austriae, 214 works on Danubian provinces by, 213, 335n81 League of Venice, 138 Le Clerc, Daniel, 246, 265, 307n121, 348n67 Histoire de la médecine, 241 Leigh, Charles, 267 lemonade, 239 Leonardi, Camillo Speculum lapidum, 201–2 Leoniceno, Niccolò, 15, 30, 31, 111, 273–74n24 Leto, Pomponio, 170 Levant, 227, 259 Le Veil, Jean, 116–17 libraries, 205, 241, 263, 278n71, 288n53, 328n22 of Sambucus, 217, 218, 222, 263, 336n98, 336n99, 336–37n100 life writing. See biography, bio-bibliography

431

lignum sanctum (guiac), 174 Ligorio, Pirro, 42, 47–50, 54, 280n93, 280n95 Linacre, 111 Lincei, Accademia dei, 170, 175 Lipsius, Justus, 54 Liuzzi, Mondino de’, 165 Anatomia, 137 Livy, Titus, 105, 138, 144, 158, 179 Lombard, Peter, 160 Lonie, Iain, 82 Louis XI, king, 130–32, 167 Löwenklau, Johann (Leunclavius), 257–58, 355n127, 355n128 Lucchetta, Francesca, 249, 350n89 Lucianic satire, 115, 158 Lyon, 139 Roman ruins at, 138 Machiavelli, Niccolò, 9, 12, 144, 308n1 Discourses, 11, 157 Maffei, Raffaele, 23 Maggi, Lucillo, 147 magic, 124, 129–30, 235, 241, 245, 346n41 Maioragio, Marcantonio, 151, 153–54, 157, 312n43, 312n44 Antiparadoxon, 153 Reprehensiones, 151–52 Malpighi, Marcello, 266, 356n3, 356n4 Manardo, Giovanni, 111, 291n88 Manni, Iacopo, 249 Mannucci, Teobaldo, 192 manuscripts, collections and collectors of, 200, 218, 257, 259, 330n39, 331–32n54, 333n65 Corvinus and, 202 Cuspinianus and, 265 Lazius and, 207, 209, 331–32n54, 333n65, 335n77 Mercuriale and, 43 Settala and, 96 mapmakers, 257, 354–55n125 maps, mapping, 170, 176, 255, 257, 335n80, 354n123, 354–55n125 Lazius and, 214, 217 Marbode of Rennes Libellus de lapide, 201

432

Marcanova, Giovanni, 170 Mariani, Andrea, 266 Marignano, Battle of, 138 Marliani, Giovanni, 156 material evidence, attention to, 3, 54, 171, 204, 213, 266 Mercuriale and, 46–47, 50 mathematics, mathematicians, 41, 84, 313n46, 327n14, 328n19, 336n97 Bacci and, 180 Cardano and, 144–45, 153 Cuspinianus and, 198 Fernel and, 125 geometry, 144 Habsburg court and, 217 Matteolo da Perugia, 85, 114 Matthias de Miechov, 98 Mattioli, Pier Andrea, 74, 220, 230, 341n126 Maximilian I, emperor, 195, 199–200, 202, 208, 223 Maximilian II, emperor, 43, 53, 195, 202, 210, 214 Sambucus and, 217, 220, 223, 224, 264 medals, 170, 200, 213–14, 221, 266 medical education, 6–7, 19, 254. See also orations lectures, 75–78, 102–3 medical epistles, 67–68, 235, 285n10 medical humanism, 4, 6–7, 73, 75, 111, 241, 248, 263. See also humanism, humanists, humanistic studies medical practice, 38, 165–66, 238, 239 medical writings, collections of, 13, 40, 65–70, 71, 72 Medici, Gian Giacomo, 152, 159–60 Medici, Cosimo de’, duke, 77 Medici, Francesco de’, duke, 95 medicinal botany, 119, 226–27 medicinal herbs, 243 medicine, history of, 128–29, 133, 261, 267–68, 307n121, 345–46n39 Cardano and, 165–67 Egypt and, 227, 233–46, 259 encyclopedism and, 115, 120 Naudé and, 128, 305n99

Index origins of medicine, accounts of, and, 120–21, 234–36, 240–42, 259 medico condotti, 247–48, 260 Meibom, Johann Heinrich, 85 Melanchthon, Philipp, 2, 10, 115, 301n43 Memm, Peter, 84 Mercati, Michele, 170 Metallotheca, 175 Mercuriale, Girolamo, 42–55, 64, 278n74–75, 281n117, 296–97n157, 325n83 ancient texts and, 42–44, 45–47, 264, 279n85 Bacci and, 174–75 Cardano and, 75, 78 Censura Hippocratis, 43, 55 “constitution” and, 102, 296n149 correspondence of, 278–79n76 De arte gymnastica, 26, 32, 42–46, 183–84, 185–86, 240–41, 274n28, 277–78n68, 280–81n102, 281n109 Galenic medicine and, 52–53 gymnastica by, 45, 51–52, 281n103, 281n107 Hippocratic case histories and, 92, 292n106, 293n111 Hippocratic commentary by, 77, 91–92, 287–88n47 on history, 63–64, 284–85n1, 285n2 illustrations in De arte gymnastica and, 47–50, 53, 280n97 library of, 263, 278n71 Ligorio and, 49, 280n93, 280n95 in Rome, 169, 171 Variae lectiones, 43, 53–54 views on plague and plague treatise by, 102–5, 296n153, 296n156 Merula, Gaudenzio, 148, 149, 150, 310n25 De Gallorum Cisalpinorum antiquitate, ac origine, 148 Memorabilia, 153 Methodism (medical), 238–39, 347n53 Michiel, Giovanni, relazione of, 250 Middle Ages, 8–9, 13 Middle East, 225, 226–28, 236, 246, 264. See also Egypt; Ottoman Empire

Index history of by P. Giovio, 254, 257, 258, 353n114 Milan, 101, 141–67. See also Cardano, Girolamo Spanish control of, 146, 148, 150 milk, 59, 60–61, 92, 282n124 Minadoi, Giovanni Tommaso, 248, 260, 352n108, 352–53n109, 353–54n119, 354n120, 354n121, 354n124, 354–55n125, 355n128 Avicenna and, 353n115 geography and, 255–56, 257–59 Historia della guerra fra Turchi, et Persiani, 246–47, 250, 252–59, 264, 349–50n85, 351n99 historical method of, 255–57, 259, 265 patrons of, 246–47, 350n86 miracles, 191, 192, 326n109 Miscellanea curiosa medico-physica Academiae Naturae curiosorum, 176 Modio, Giovanni Battista, 168, 178, 179 Moehsen, Johann Carl Wilhelm, 268 Momigliano, Arnaldo, 11, 12, 108 Montagnana, Bartolomeo da, 185, 222, 341n126 morbus gallicus (gallica lues, syphilis), 27, 30–31, 32, 174, 186, 327n15 Moreau, René, 128–29, 130, 131, 305n100, 305–6n101 Morhof, Daniel Georg, 107, 298n8 mumia, 229–30, 232–33, 259, 347n55 Murad III, Sultan, 246, 252 museums, 39, 96, 111, 170, 267 narrative, description, and particulars in Renaissance medicine, 13, 72, 157, 187, 196, 223 emergence of, 3, 15, 19 in Hippocratic-Galenic medical tradition, 24 natural history, 168, 225, 226, 228, 229, 267 Bacci and, 183, 193 in Rome, 169–70, 172, 173, 178, 182, 184 in Vienna, 196, 201–2, 215–16, 217–18 naturalists, 174–75 natural philosophy, 7, 142, 146, 162, 185, 262

433

natural springs, 184–87 Naudé, Gabriel, 4, 107, 138, 197, 265, 307n114 Addition à l’histoire de Louis XI, 129, 130 Advis pour dresser une bibliothèque, 129, 130, 306n109 Apologie pour tous les grands personnages qui ont esté faussement soupçonnez de magie, 129 history of medicine and, 128, 305n99 Louis XI and, 130–32 medical quaestiones, 305n97 On the Antiquity and Dignity of the Paris Medical School, 116 skepticism of, 127–28 Nelles, Paul, 129 Nero, 158, 163, 315n74 New World, 225–26, 341–42n1 Nibelungenlied, 212 Nicephorus Callistus, 104 Nile river, 234, 239 Nizzoli, Mario, 151, 154 numismatics, 209. See also coins nurses, 85 Nutton, Vivian, 32, 44, 121, 345– 46n39 obelisks, 231 observation, 15, 187. See also empiricism observationes, 65, 68–69, 70, 189 occult causes, 124, 152, 304n78. See also magic Oddi, Oddo degli, 80–81 opium, 239 Oporinus, Johannes, 151–52 orations, 113–19, 151, 197, 199, 301n43, 302n58 funeral, 118–19, 175 by Lazius, 216–17 by Minadoi, 254 by Naudé, 131 Orsini, Fulvio, 42, 50, 171, 175, 183–84, 324n70 Orta, Garcia de, 349n79 Ortelius, Abraham, 257 osteology, 33, 36, 40, 57

434 Ottoman Empire, 99, 249, 330n40 in Egypt, 237 European humanism and, 226, 227, 233, 236, 257, 259 history of, 251, 257–58, 259–60, 349–50n85 in Hungary, 210–11, 221 in southeastern Europe, 205 Venetian consulates in, 246–50 Ottoman-Safavid war, 246, 250–52, 254, 255. See also Minadoi: Historia della guerra fra Turchi, et Persiani Otto of Freising, 205, 265 Ovid, 120, 272n5 Paitoni, Giovanni Battista, 78–79, 288n53 Palladio, Andrea I quattro libri dell’architettura, 50 panegyrics, 150, 213 Panvinio, Onofrio, 42, 175, 215, 278n69, 278n70, 325n83 papacy, 323n62. See also popes court of, 2, 19, 173 papal physicians, 173, 320n24 Paracelsians, Paracelsian medicine, 122, 130, 242, 246 Paracelsus, 12, 112, 130, 300n30, 306n109, 341n126 Cardano and, 157 narrative and, 15, 19, 72 Paré, Ambroise, 16, 23–24, 108, 307n114 Parry, V. J., 251 pathology, 40 patients, 7, 43, 91, 153, 173, 175 A. Vittori and, 189–91 Patin, Charles, 267 Patin, Guy, 129, 130 Patrizi da Cherso, Francesco, 10, 43, 147 patrons, 7, 9, 197, 263, 264, 342n10 of Alpino, 236 of Bacci, 173 of Cardano, 153 of Celtis, 199–200 of Lazius, 206 of Mercuriale, 43 of Minadoi, 246–47

Index of Sambucus, 221 of Vittori, 175 Paul of Aegina, 219 Pavia, Battle of, 146 pediatric cases, 240 Peiresc, Nicolas Fabri de, 131 Pellegrini, Giovanni Battista, 8 Pellicier, Guillaume, 127 Perdiccas, 201 Persian Empire, 244, 249, 251, 256 Petroni, Alessandro Traiano, 169, 173, 178, 189, 319n22, 323n62 case histories and, 190–91 defending the Tiber, 168 on diet, 181–82 hospitals and, 172 Petrus de Abano. See Pietro d’Abano Petrus de Aegina, 235 Peucer, Caspar, 2 pharmacology, 236 Philip II, Spain, 225 philology, 112, 217–24, 232, 235, 263, 281n114 Cagnati and, 174, 176, 189 Goropius and, 36 Hippocratic texts and, 73, 74–75, 287n35 humanism and, 4, 7, 54, 138, 263 medical epistles and, 67–68 Mercuriale and, 43, 240 philosophy, 6, 8, 9, 153 phlebotomy. See bloodletting physical culture and exercise, GrecoRoman, 42–55, 60, 116, 177, 186–87, 264. See also Mercuriale, Girolamo: De arte gymnastica physiognomy, 71, 96, 110–11 physiology, physiological concepts, 5, 28, 39, 156, 245, 261 Cagnati and, 182 Cardano and, 160 Conring and, 27, 60 Fernel and, 125, 304n83 gigantism and, 40

Index Hippocratic environmentalism and, 56, 75, 93, 97, 99 Mercuriale and, 51 pre- and postlapsarian, 28–29 Settala and, 96 Vittori and, 191 Piccolomini, Aeneas Silvius (Pope Pius II), 198–99, 327n16 Piccolomini, Arcangelo, 172 Pietro d’Abano, 32, 109, 121, 130, 273n17, 273n18, 274n27 Celsus and, 13–14 Conciliator, 29–30, 120 rhetoric and, 301n41 Pigafetta, Antonio, 40, 273n11 Pigeaud, Jackie, 78 Pinelli, Gian Vicenzo, 43 Pinon, Laurent, 196 plague, 164, 207, 296n153 epidemics (of 1576 and 1630), 96 history of, 102–5 plague of Athens, 12, 102 plague treatises, 66, 96, 102–5 Plancy, Guillaume, 123–25, 127, 303n74, 304n83 Plato, 162, 187, 235 Critias, 46 Platonism, 82, 124 Platter, Felix, 39–42, 108, 126, 276n59, 277n62 Platter, Thomas, 108 Pliny, 15, 31, 120, 231, 232, 245 Benedetti and, 138 Conring and, 61 Natural History, 12 viticulture and, 183 Plutarch, 100, 107, 297n4, 297n161 Lives, 120 Symposium, 46 poetry, poets, 61–62, 112, 201, 205, 207, 309n16 Cardano and, 163 Cellius and, 128 Celtis as, 199 Cuspinianus and, 195, 198, 200–201, 203, 205 Eobanus of Hesse and, 113

435

Junius and, 38 Merula and, 148 Moreau and, 129 A. S. Piccolomini and, 199 Sambucus and, 218, 219, 221, 222–23 poisons, 188 Polentone, Sicco, 14 Poliziano, Angelo, 54, 75 Polybius, 19 Pomata, Gianna, 68 popes, 170, 184. See also under papacy; Piccolomini, Aeneas Silvius Clement VII, 178 Gregory IX, 204 Nicholas V, 170 Paul II, 170 Paul III, 95–96, 229 Paul IV, 171 Pius II (Giovanni Angelo Medici), 327n16 Pius IV, 316n85 Pius V, 171, 179 Sixtus V, 173 Porro, Branda, 147 portrait books, 110–11, 113, 118, 220–21 portraits, 5, 110–11, 112, 221–22, 328n21, 332–33n64 practica, 66, 187 protomedici, 94, 172, 173–74, 197, 320n26 psychology, 63 Ptolemy, 88, 291n87 Tetrabiblos, 28, 93, 144–45, 163 public health, 168, 177–84, 320n26 pyramids, 344n26 Pythagoras, 235 Quintilian, 9 Ramusio, Giovanni Battista, 257, 273n11 Ramusio, Girolamo, 248–49, 350n89, 354–55n125 Ramusio, Paolo, 47, 49 Ransano, Pietro Epitome rerum Hungaricarum, 221, 339n118 rational medicine, 237, 238 Rauwolf, Leonhart, 227

436 Reformation, Reformed religion, Reformers, 10, 74, 127, 206, 262 religious relations in sixteenth-century Vienna, 223–24 Remon, Alfonso, 256 Reusner, Nicolaus, 111, 299–300n26 Reychersdorff, Georg, 185 Rhenanus, Beatus, 209, 223, 332n60, 332n62, 335n83 Rerum Germanicarum libri, 208, 213 rhetoric, 113, 114–15, 262, 264, 301n40, 301n41. See also orations epideictic, 116 Riolan, Jean, the younger, 35–36, 39, 275n41, 276n60 Anthropographia, 275n40 rivers Arno, 95–96 Nile, 234 Tiber, 95–96, 168–69, 173, 177–80, 293n123 Roman Academy, 170 Rome, 168–98, 323n62. See also Bacci, Andrea; Cagnati, Marsilio; Vittori, Angelo Counter-Reformation, 171 papal government of, 174 public health in, 177–84 Rondelet, Guillaume, 106, 223, 303n75, 304n90, 341n126 Joubert’s biography of, 123, 126–27 Rossi, Girolamo, 197 Rota, Giovanni Francesco, 249–50 Royal Society Philosophical Transactions, 266 Rufus, Sextus, 202 Safavid Persia, 244, 249, 251, 256. See also Ottoman-Safavid war saints Carlo Borromeo, 316n85 Diego of Alcalá, 191–92 Filippo Neri, 72, 175, 189–90, 191–92 Francis Xavier, 191–92 Ignatius Loyola, 172, 191–92, 319n22, 326n109

Index Roch, 166 Sallust, 144, 154 Salviani, Ippolito, 172, 321–22n39, 341n126 Salviani, Sallustio, 176–77, 323n62 Salviati, Antonmaria, Cardinal, 189 Samaden, Lucia, 250 Sambucus, Johannes, 195, 198, 217–24, 336n95, 336n96 appendix to Ransano’s Epitome by, 339n118 as emblemist, 218–19, 337n102, 337n103 as historicus, 196, 217, 221, 336n94 Lazius and, 208, 219, 222, 223, 341n126 library of, 217, 218, 222, 263, 336n98, 336n99 Maximilian II and, 217, 220, 223, 224, 264 recent or contemporary ‹gures of included in his Icones, 340–41n126 Veterum aliquot ac recentius medicorum philosophorumque icones, 113, 203, 222–23 Sanches, Francisco, 81 Sansovino, Francesco, 251 Sanuto, Marino Diary, 249 Sarasin, Jean-Antoine, 219–20, 338n111 Savonarola, Michele, 14, 66–67, 109, 185, 222, 341n126 Scaliger, Joseph, 75, 341n126 scari‹cation, 238, 347n50, 347n55 Schedel, Hartman, 7, 19, 196, 273n20 Nuremberg Chronicle, 1–2, 30 Schenck von Grafenberg, Johann, 69, 72, 191 Schilling, Christoph, 117 Schmalkaldic War (1546–47), 210, 214 Schnapper, Antoine, 27, 36 scholasticism, scholastics, 13, 66, 121, 124, 130, 161 in biographical collections, 104, 110, 114 Giovanni di Marco da Rimini and, 14 Hippocratic texts and, 73, 75, 79 humanism and, 3, 6 Pietro d’Abano and, 29 scientia, 9, 66

Index de‹ned, 13 Scythians, 98, 254 Selim I, Sultan, 251 Senate, of Milan and ancient Rome compared, 151, 159 Seneca Natural Questions, 46 Settala, Lodovico, 94, 96–99, 100–102, 196, 295n145, 295–96n147 astrology and, 96, 291n84 Hippocratic commentary by, 87, 96, 293–94n128 Sfondrati, Francesco, 153 Sforza, Francesco II, 146, 148–49, 150 Sforza, Lodovico, 150 Sigismund of Poland, 202 Sigonio, Carlo, 11, 204, 278n70 skepticism, 127–28 Sloane, Hans, 267 Solinus, 29 Soll, Jacob, 196 Soranus, 80, 84 Sorsanus, 122 spas, 185 specialization, 266–67 Speziano, Giovanni Battista, 149, 150, 153 Sphinx, sphinxes, 231, 344n24 Spiessheimer, Johann. See Cuspinianus, Johannes spiritus, 124, 125, 304n78 Spon, Jacob, 265–66 Sprengel, Kurt, 268 Statius, 46 Stephens, Walter, 27 Strabo, 120, 257 Geography, 83 Strada, Jacopo, 209, 223 Studium of Padua, 271n24 studium urbis (Rome), 172 Suetonius, 158, 179 Suleiman the Magni‹cent, Sultan, 212 surgery, surgeons, 68, 108, 131, 172, 187, 304n90. See also autopsy in Egyptian burial practices, 235, 239 Paré and, 16, 23, 307n114 texts on, 13, 66, 70 Vesalius and, 33

437

Sylvius, Jacobus (Jacques Dubois), 27, 32, 34–35, 272n1, 272n2, 306n103, 341n126 Introduction to Anatomy, 25–26 Syria, 247, 248 Tabula smaragdina, 242 Tacitus, Cornelius, 60, 61, 147, 158–59, 179, 316n79 in the Germania, 57 Tahmasp, Shah, 246 Tatars, 98 temperament, 51, 59–60, 98–99, 182, 239 texts, ancient, 4, 13, 14 humanism and, 9, 94, 107 Mercuriale and, 42–44, 45–47, 264, 279n85 Thasos, 91 theology, theologians, 40, 110, 112, 161, 198, 200. See also Bible C. Bartholin and, 275n37 Lazius and, 212 Minadoi and, 248 Peucer and, 2 Rondelet and, 127 Theophrastus, 63, 107, 162, 222, 284, 297 as authority on plants, 170, 174 theriac, 188, 239, 325n92, 347n57 Thevet, André, 111–12, 227, 300n27, 342n10 Thucydides, 12, 64, 102, 103, 105 Tiberius, 179 travel, 117, 226, 227, 228 travel writing, 61, 108, 185, 226–28, 257, 266 Lazius on, 214, 336n87 Treaty of Varad (1538), 210–11 Trivulzio, Gian Giacomo, 159–60 Trogus, Pompeius, 144 Turks. See Ottoman Empire Turquet de Mayerne, Theodore, 71–72 Ugolino da Montecatino, 185 universities, 6–7, 10, 13, 75–78, 269n5. See also medical education Cambridge, 131, 197 curricula, 73, 76–78, 115 Leiden, 119

438

Index

Marburg, 115 Montpellier, 117 Padua, 76, 114, 236 universities (continued) Paris, 128, 130–31, 302n51 Pavia, 146 Pisa, 76, 77, 94 Rome (La Sapienza, studium urbis), 172, 174 Rostock, 84 Tübingen, 118 Vienna, 195, 198–99, 206–7 Wittenberg, 115 Ursinus Velius, Caspar, 209

Vitruvius, 46, 54 De architectura, 280n100 Vittori, Angelo, 169, 173, 193, 318n4, 326n101, 326n103, 326n104 canonization and, 191–92 Consultationes, 175, 190, 191 as expert witness in secular court cases, 191, 192 Medica disputatio on the autopsy of St. Filippo Neri, 189–90, 191 Vittori, Benedetto, 341n126 vivisection, 131. See also dissection von Roggendorf, Wilhelm, 211–12 Vorst, Everhard, 119, 303n63

Vadianus, Joachim, 199, 328n17 Valles, Francisco, 78, 91 Van Gorp, Jan. See Goropius Becanus, Johannes Varthema, Ludovico, 185 Vegerio, Pier Paolo, 114 Vegio, Scipione, 149–50 Velleius Paterculus, 54 Venice, 150, 236, 247 Vergil, Polydore, 185 De inventoribus rerum, 115, 120, 145, 234 verse. See poetry, poets Vesalius, Andreas, 89, 223, 263, 274n31, 341n126 Cardano and, 163, 165 De humani corporis fabrica, 33 Galenic anatomy and, 25–26, 30, 32, 34 Vettori, Pier, 43, 50, 278–79n76 Vienna, 194–224. See also Cuspinianus, Johannes; Lazius, Wolfgang; Sambucus, Johannes Villani, Filippo De origine civitatis Florentiae et eiusdem famosis civibus, 110 Villani, Matteo, 105 Virgil, 160, 179 viticulture, 183. See also wine

wars, warfare, 222, 226, 246, 342n3, 353n114 exercise and, 45, 53, 60, 186 Italian wars, 137–39, 140, 143 Milan and, 146, 149, 152, 156 Ottoman-Safavid war, 246, 250–52, 254, 255 Schmalkaldic War (1546–47), 210, 214 siege of Buda, 210–12, 222, 331n48 Wars of Religion (France), 229 water quality, 168, 177, 178, 185, 211, 234, 239 water supply, 95, 171, 177, 265 Werner, Abraham, 122 Werner, Georg, 185 Wier, Johann, 71 William of Orange, 37 wine, 182–83, 323n64 Wolf, Johann Artes historicae penus, 222 women, 85, 138, 175, 238, 326n109 Woolf, Daniel, 10 Worm, Ole, 41, 277n65 Zápolya, János, 210–11, 220 Ziegler, Joseph, 28–29

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