Night Reading Among the Herbs: A 17th-Century Herbal Notebook

【Introduction】

Tonight, let’s open a three-hundred-year-old English herbal. Its author, Nicholas Culpeper, was a somewhat rebellious country doctor. He didn’t care much for the pompous physicians’ guild of his time, believing they kept too many secrets from ordinary people. So he did something bold: he wrote about the uses of herbs in English, so that those who couldn’t afford a doctor might find comfort in their own back gardens. This book doesn’t read like a textbook. It’s more like a man chatting with you by the fireside — sometimes grumbling, sometimes joking, but every sentence carries a simple kindness: your body deserves to be cared for, and the earth has already given you what you need. This quiet companionship comes from AetherFate — just gently gathering old voices worth remembering, and offering them to you.

(Based on 6 original text passages from the source material, all retained)

Passage 1

Original (The English Physitian Enlarged, 1653｜p. 26):

It grows up with woody stalks even to a man’s height, and sometimes bigger. The Leaves fall off at the approach of winter, and spring out again of the same stalk at Spring time. The branch is compassed about with a whitish bark, and hath a pith in the middle of it.

Reflection:

This is a plant called bittersweet. Culpeper describes it as if telling the story of a person: it grows and grows, sometimes as tall as a human being. In winter the leaves fall, yet come spring, new leaves sprout from the same stem. Look at it: a whitish bark on the outside, soft pith in the middle. Reading this, I suddenly feel it resembles you — after a long winter, something seems to have withered, but just when you think it’s over, new leaves still emerge from the same place. Not a different stem, not a different self — just the same stalk, the same you. Only the season has changed. Have you felt this way too? After surviving some terribly hard time, you look back and realise you’re still standing. Not broken, just slower. That, perhaps, is what plants teach you: to live is to sprout anew, again and again.

Passage 2

Original (The English Physitian Enlarged, 1653｜p. 32):

Agrimony a strengthener of the Liver. It healeth and cleanseth, cutteth and clenseth thick and tough humors of the Breast, and for this I hold it inferior to few Herbs that grow.

Reflection:

He calls agrimony “a strengthener of the liver”. In those days, people believed the liver governed emotions and vitality. A weak liver meant tiredness, dullness, lack of energy. What agrimony does, he says, is to “cut and cleanse” those “thick and tough humours” — you might think of them as accumulated fatigue, undigested emotions. What’s interesting is that he doesn’t describe an aggressive attack, but rather “healing” and “cleansing” — gentle words. Like brewing a warm cup of tea, and slowly, your body loosens by itself. Sometimes you don’t need much, no grand philosophy, just something gentle to clear a blockage. It could be this herb, or a moment of quiet, or simply a warm hand resting on your shoulder.

Passage 3

Original (The English Physitian Enlarged, 1653｜p. 37):

Half a dram, or a dram at most of the Roots hereof in powder, taken in Wine and Vinegar, of each a like quantity, and the party presently laid to sweat, is held to be a sovereign Remedy for those that are infected with the plague.

Reflection:

This passage is about angelica root. In an age of plague, people would grind a small amount of angelica root into powder, mix it with wine and vinegar, drink it, then lie down to sweat — they believed this would drive out the “poison” from within. Today we know it’s not exactly scientific, but I’m struck by the act behind it: when you feel infected by something — not a virus, but that wordless heaviness, that creeping anxiety, that darkness like a tide — you need a ritual to “sweat it out”. Maybe a hot bath. Maybe turning off your phone and lying in the dark listening to rain. Maybe, as Culpeper suggests, wrapping yourself in blankets and letting your body expel the thing itself. You don’t need to understand how. Just trust that your body knows how to come back to life better than your mind does.

Passage 4

Original (The English Physitian Enlarged, 1653｜p. 56):

Betony… helpeth those that loath, or cannot digest their meat, those that have weak stomachs, or sour belchings, or continual rising in their stomach.

Reflection:

He says betony helps those who “loathe food”, who “cannot digest” — those with weak stomachs, sour belches, constant rising in the gut. Do you notice? He’s not really talking about the stomach. He’s talking about the state of being unable to take anything in — not just food, but life itself. Waking up in the morning and finding everything bland and unappealing. Sitting at the table with a mind full of noise, chewing mechanically, unable to swallow. That feeling of “continual rising” — isn’t it like those emotions you can’t keep down? He says betony helps. I think he’s pointing to a simple wisdom: sometimes you need something warm and gentle, to soothe the tightness in your gut from the inside out, and then the tightness in your heart might loosen a little too. Next time you feel you can’t stomach anything, try making a warm soup and drink it slowly. You don’t have to finish it. Just let warmth flow through you.

Passage 5

Original (The English Physitian Enlarged, 1653｜p. 62):

The Buds, Leaves, and Branches while they are green, are of a good use in the ulcers and putrid sores of the Mouth and Throat, and for the Quinsie; and likewise to heal other fresh Wounds and Sores.

Reflection:

Blackberry — those thorny brambles by the roadside. Culpeper says their green buds, leaves and branches can be used on ulcers and sores in the mouth and throat, and to heal fresh wounds. This makes me think: often the things that look a bit prickly, a bit wild, hold the gentlest healing power. Like that friend of yours who speaks plainly and rarely offers sweet words — but when you’re truly hurt, they’re the first to roll up their sleeves and bandage you up. Blackberry is that friend in plant form. Not pretty, not easy to approach, but its young shoots are tender, its sap is clean. Sometimes the best healing doesn’t come from soft, delicate things, but from those that are rough but real. You’ve felt that too, haven’t you? Healed unexpectedly by someone or something that didn’t look gentle at first.

Passage 6

Original (The English Physitian Enlarged, 1653｜p. 73):

The great Comfry helpeth those that spit blood, or make a bloody Urine: The Root boiled in Water and Wine, and the Decoction drunk, helpeth all inward burns, bruises, and wounds, and ulcers of the Lungs.

Reflection:

Comfrey — also called “knitbone”. Its name tells you its purpose: to reconnect what has broken. He says it helps those who cough blood or pass bloody urine; boil its root in water and wine, drink the decoction, and it heals internal burns, bruises, wounds, and ulcers of the lungs. Reading this, I feel a quiet sense of being held. Because some wounds are inside, invisible to others, impossible to explain. Not bleeding wounds, but the kind where — your heart is slowly worn down, slowly burnt, and then some part of it cracks. Comfrey doesn’t ask how it happened. It simply steeps itself into a warm cup, waits for you to drink, and then, somewhere you can’t see, it patiently pieces the fragments back together. It’s not in a hurry. It doesn’t push. It’s just there. Like a lamp left on through the night. You don’t have to say anything. It already understands.

【Closing Reflection】

Six passages from three hundred years ago. Six wild plants. They cannot speak, yet in a very old way they tell you this: every discomfort in your body deserves to be taken seriously. Not to “get better”, but to be seen. Tonight, if you wish, imagine this book as a smooth, warm crystal in your palm. You don’t have to do anything. Just let it be there with you. Let those old sentences drift through you like a night breeze, carrying away a little of what weighs you down. AetherFate, with you, quietly reading old books.