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Ancient Roman Medicinal Plant Was Feared Due to 'Insanity, Giddiness' Effects: Study

Apotent plant revered by ancient Romans for its healing properties was also feared as an element of dark magic due to its strong psychoactive effects, according to a new study.

While these historic humans used "black henbane" as a medicine, researchers say they also worked it into witches' brews and rituals like the summoning of demons, Knewz.com has learned.

 

A plant called© Knewz (UK)

"Evidence of the deliberate collection and use of black henbane seeds in the Roman Netherlands is presented here for the first time," researchers from the Netherlands and Germany wrote in the study, published in the journal Antiquity on Thursday, February 8.

Black henbane is "an extremely poisonous plant species that can also be used as a medicinal or psychoactive drug," the study explained, adding that all parts of the flowering plant can be used as a medicine or narcotic.

Its seeds can be made into a juice "for curing all kinds of pain, mucus and disorders of the womb, while the leaves can be applied to the body to soothe pain or be used in a decoction to cure fever," the researchers said.

However, when boiled "like vegetables," the leaves can cause "heavy disturbance of the senses," they noted.

 

All parts of the plant can be used as a medicine or narcotic, according to the study. By: MEGA© Knewz (UK)

In the Netherlands, remains of the plant have been found dating back to the Neolithic period, or New Stone Age, and onward, according to the study.

"In medieval texts, magical or ritual properties are ascribed to black henbane alongside its medicinal function," the research said. 

Historians have also found evidence that the plant was used "to evoke rain, summon demons and attract game," and as an ingredient "in witches' potions" due to its "psychoactive and hallucinogenic properties."

The study centered around an artifact made from animal bone found in 2017 at Houten-Castellum, a rural Roman settlement in the Netherlands. The site was inhabited from the Early Iron Age, during the 6th century B.C., to the Roman period.

 

The study centered around a hollowed-out animal bone full of seeds, found in 2017 at a rural Roman settlement in the Netherlands. By: Maaike Groot et al© Knewz (UK)

The bone, from a sheep or goat, "had been hollowed out, sealed on one side by a plug of a black material and filled with hundreds of black henbane seeds," the study said, adding that the discovery presented "an opportunity to gain new insight into the historical use of this species." 

The researchers said that finds from inside containers, especially those with a large number of seeds, "are considered indicative of intentional use by humans," and that it could therefore be concluded that "henbane was used as a medicine, and that the dangerous side effects of its use were known, in the Roman and Greek worlds."

Black henbane is a nightshade plant indigenous to Europe and Asia, and is common at archaeological sites across northwestern Europe, as it grows around settlements.

"It is possible that these first farmers brought this plant species with them, either intentionally or unintentionally," the study explained.

 

 

Black henbane is a nightshade plant indigenous to Europe and Asia, and is commonly found at archaeological sites across northwestern Europe. By: MEGA© Knewz (UK)

Since the plant grows like a weed at these sites, experts have found it difficult to determine its significance.

But despite the plant's air of mystery, the study noted that "some archaeological evidence does suggest that its psychoactive properties were understood and exploited by people." 

The Greco-Roman physician Dioscorides, the researchers said, wrote that "white henbane is best for cures and the black should be avoided due to its stronger effects."

The Roman writer Pliny the Elder also wrote that the plant causes "insanity and giddiness," and called it "both a poison and a remedy." 

Shock of the old: 10 scandalous vintage medicines – from asthma cigarettes to cocaine wine

The confusion with patent medicines starts with the name, since they were rarely ever patented; manufacturers just thought it sounded cool. Bamboozling was always part of the package: from the 17th century, concoctions of water, alcohol and herbs were sold with wild claims and exotic origin stories. In the 1630s, Anderson’s Pills were hyped with dubious claims that the recipe came from Venice and Anderson’s close ties to the King. By the 18th century, there were liniments, wafers, unguents and tonics confidently proclaiming they would cure whatever ailed you. 

Indeed, claiming to cure everything – from “generalised debility” to “chafing”, “lassitude” to “weak stomach fibres” – was key to patent medicines’ success. Before anaesthesia and antibiotics, the distinction between quack and “proper” medicine was blurred anyway: why not fall for the seductive claims of a herbal panacea when your doctor is threatening blood-letting?

Mass production and the media supercharged patent medicines in the later 19th century, particularly in the US, where they became big business. The advertising industry cut its teeth and developed its creativity on them: ads were everywhere and travelling shows took quack medicine live. Attention-grabbing colour-printed trade cards were particularly popular, luridly playing on fears and aspirations and confirming prejudices. Women were presented as ethereal, feeble simpletons (and “unfeminine” behaviour such as having an opinion could be cured with the right elixir), and racist imagery, particularly of Native Americans, was used to make potions appear “exotic”, authentic and ancient.

Patent medicines declined with the dawning realisation that unregulated sale of cocaine and opiates might be a Bad Thing. The press had been instrumental in – and profited from – the industry’s success (half its advertising revenue was derived from the trade in the 19th century); “muckraker” journalists such as Samuel Hopkins Adams would hasten its downfall. His “Great American Fraud” report detailed scaremongering, fake testimonials and ineffective, lethal ingredients. Regulation followed in 1906 with the US Pure Food and Drug Act; the UK’s 1908 Pharmacy Act limited cocaine, morphine and opium content to a tame 1%. Further, tighter regulation followed and now only a few remedies survive in radically toned-down versions, such as 7Up, now lithium-free. 

Did any work? Plenty contained effective (excessive) opiate analgesia; simpler formulas could be effective for indigestion or iron deficiency, and the placebo effect must have been powerful. A PhD thesis on Georgian medicines argued that it is anachronistic to assess historical remedies with our contemporary understanding of ingredients and efficacy. Perhaps that’s right? It’s easy to sneer at the unscrupulous peddling of snake oil to the credulous, but who are we, in our era of horse-wormer Covid cures and TikTokkers drinking borax to judge? Counter-argument: you really shouldn’t give teething babies opium.

I need to get back to tinkering with Dr Beddington’s Tincture for Moral Degeneracy, so let’s dive in. Warning: side effects may include temporary blindness, hallucinations and hairy werewolf palms.

Mrs Winslow’s soothing syrup

‘Baby killer’ … a 1910 ad for Mrs Winslow’s Soothing Syrup. Photograph: Pictorial Press/Alamy© Provided by The Guardian

You could make an educated guess at the active ingredient in baby nurse Charlotte Winslow’s syrup just looking at these infants’ eyes. Its 65mg of morphine per ounce (plus alcohol) is believed to have been a significant cause of infant mortality – 1.5m bottles were sold annually, according to an 1868 court summons – and it was condemned by the American Medical Association in 1911 as a “baby killer”. .

A Pale Person myself, I yearn to gambol, rosy-cheeked, through flowery meadows carrying aloft a gigantic tube of my ferrous salvation; you don’t get that from sachets of Spatone Liquid Iron that taste like rusty nails. There are plenty of English-language ads for Pink Pills, which were created in Canada in 1886 and were sold in the UK until the 1970s, but this one is so bursting with art nouveau je ne sais quoi it demanded to be included.

Asthma cigarettes

Listen, I know what you’re thinking, but what if I told you asthma cigarettes included anti-spasmodic ingredients such as stramonium, which means they were basically like an old-timey inhaler? Still no? How about if I tell you that Proust was a fan? Oh, he was a lifelong invalid and died at 51? Fair point.

Hunt’s Remedy

‘Never known to fail’ … Hunt’s Remedy. Photograph: Buyenlarge/Getty Images© Provided by The Guardian

There’s some powerful “not today Satan” energy on display in this late 19th-century trade card: Death picked the wrong guy in tiny pink shorts. Colour was one of patent medicine’s secret weapons – colours on packaging were often touted as proof of authenticity and ads were bright and detailed – and Hunt’s has gone all in, to winning effect. They should put this image on those fancy £8 boxes of matches; they’d sell like hot opium-laced wafers. 

Dr Thomas’s Eclectric Oil

Nothing says “science” like an entirely made-up word (capitalising on the 19th-century American fascination with electricity, apparently). Patent medicines were often marketed for animals as well as humans and why not? One of my relatives shared anti-epileptics with the family dachshund. Though this kitten looks pretty bleary: “alcohol, chloroform … tinctures of opium … hemlock, and turpentine” will do that, I suppose.

Ayer’s Ague Cure

Thankfully, the ‘cure’ did contain quinine. Photograph: Hi-Story/Alamy© Provided by The Guardian

“An ailing alligator is given a bottle of the Ague Cure by two concerned-looking frogs,” reads the Wellcome Collection’s unimprovable description of this ad. The Ague Cure boasted of not containing quinine, rather unfortunately for a malaria treatment. Thankfully, that was a lie: it did contain quinine.

Hamlin’s Wizard Oil

This is compelling, but confusing. The circus elephant has stolen the Wizard Oil, OK, but why is someone painting the slogan on its rear, and who are the nattily dressed men with wind instruments? What’s happening on the roof? Admittedly Hamlin’s was 50-70% alcohol plus ammonia and turpentine, so the world would probably look like this chaotic clown show if you drank it.

Pond’s Extract

Pond’s extract was one of the first commercial products to contain witch hazel. Photograph: Hi-Story/Alamy© Provided by The Guardian

More frog medics, a recurring – and welcome – theme in patent medicine advertising. I would absolutely buy whatever this very professional-looking duo is brewing up, or I would have done until a friend theorised it was “their own back secretions”.

Dr McMunn’s

The vibe on this 1860s ad is very off: the grey, deceased-looking invalid is a terrible advert for the Dr McMunn’s products on her bedside table. She’s being nursed by what appears to be Spanish Monkey Christ in a crinoline – no wonder it’s going badly – and there are far too many animals and children knocking around this apparent deathbed. The men outside are harvesting quinine and cinchonine, the active ingredients; I fear it’s a bit late for that.

Vin Mariani

Fit for a Pope … Mariani Wine tonic. Photograph: Contraband Collection/Alamy© Provided by The Guardian

This is not just cocaine wine; this is Pope-approved cocaine wine. Leo XIII lived to 93 thanks, arguably, to a hip flask of Vin Mariani tonic wine (the “tonic” was 6mg of coca leaf). Mariani was wildly ahead of his time, marketing-wise: he sent samples to celebrities requesting testimonials, which he then published. Vin-fluencers included Presidents William McKinley and Ulysses S Grant and Pius X: yes, that’s two popes and two presidents. Chapeau.