My Poison Garden

by Linda S Lange

It all began innocently enough, I suppose.

I mean, it’s not as if I sat down with my garden journal one morning and said, “I believe I’ll plant a poison garden over there…with some foxglove, say, and a bit of aconite for that lovely blue color.” Truly, I don’t remember how it started. But Agatha Christie may be to blame. Miss Marple, probably.

I’ve been a mystery reader for as long as I’ve been a gardener: Nancy Drew under the Christmas tree and puddling in the tomato plants with my grandmother. The two just grew up together, mysteries and gardens—organically, as it were. But it wasn’t until I had my own garden in Denver that I began to notice that some of the poisons in those mystery stories—especially those with a gardening connection—came from plants that I was growing in my backyard! Innocently enough, I probably chose them for the lovely flowers, or perhaps because I subconsciously recognized the name from a story.

After awhile, however, it became more deliberate—choosing and cultivating those specimens that carried a sinister back story, and studying the properties of seed or leaf or root, often with my fellow Rocky Mountain Unit members. Reading Susan Wittig Albert’s China Bayles mysteries and, of course, Amy Stewart’s Wicked Plants. More recently, with the HSA’s Herbal Fiction Book Clubs, Sarah Penner’s Lost Apothecary and A is for Arsenic: The Poisons of Agatha Christie by Kathryn Harkup. It’s such a delight to learn that something I’ve been growing for years has a dark side!

Eventually, it became a point of mischievous pride. “Did you know those morning glories are poisonous?…Or those lovely lilies of the valley?”  Amusing to watch the innocent garden visitor step back and look around carefully.

“Of course you want to wait until the elderberries (Sambucus) are fully ripe, and even then…Take care if you brush against the rue (Ruta graveolens), it’s sometimes an irritant. Rhubarb (Rheum) leaves, of course, but did you know about Caladium and elephant ear (Colocasia)?…The yew trees (Taxus spp.) are actually my neighbor’s.”

“Let me show you the fall crocus! No saffron from this one. Colchicum autumnale is a whole different family and very bad news in the kitchen!”

The thing is, so many of our common garden plants can be “irritating, obnoxious, or downright deadly,” to borrow a phrase from Amy Stewart. What’s been the most fun about deliberately cultivating known sources of poison is learning about them myself and sharing the message that our gardens are not always as innocent as we might think. Often it’s just a matter of the dose or preparation that differentiates a health benefit from something more deadly – like the heart medicine digitalis from foxglove or cancer treatment, Taxol, from the yew.

Sound plant identification is critical, of course. My initial source is usually Thomas J. Elpel’s Botany in a Day: The Patterns Method of Plant Identification, An Herbal Field Guide to Plant Families of North America (2013).  And it’s fair to say – again – that I’m a gardener.  I’m growing these things for fun and not for use! I drink coffee from the supermarket, and rarely – if ever – tea from my garden.

Photo Credits: 1) Larkspur (Delphinium sp.) in the foreground as a stand-in for wolf’s bane (Aconitum sp.); 2) Datura sp. and Ipomoea sp.; 3) Black elderberry (Sambucus sp.), elephant ears (Colocasia sp.), and lily of the valley (Convallaria majalis); 4) Down the garden path; 5) Author with morning glories. All photos courtesy of the author.

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Linda “Lin” Lange is a gardener, avid mystery buff, and incoming president of The Herb Society of America. So far, at least, she doesn’t think anyone has been poisoned in her Denver garden, but several visitors have been observed to step back a bit when the plants are identified and her husband is very cautious about harvesting.

HSA Webinar: Female Poisoners

by  Sarah Penner

Sherlock Holmes said it best in the 1945 movie, Pursuit to Algiers: “Poison is a woman’s weapon.” It’s a statement not without evidence – historical records tell us that female poisoners were prevalent. Throughout England in the 18th and 19th  centuries, the largest population of accused poisoners consisted of wives, mothers, and female servants, between the ages of twenty and twenty-nine. Motives ranged widely; grudges against employers, the removal of inconvenient spouses or lovers, death benefits or the inability to financially support a child.

As I state in the historical note at the back of The Lost Apothecary, death by poison is an intimate affair; an element of trust generally exists between victim and villain. Easy access to both victims and poison cannot be underestimated when considering the prevalence of historical women poisoners. Think of the household roles common for women before the 20th century: a fatigued mother, a betrayed wife, the caretaker of a convalescent, begrudged cooks or servants. These roles permitted women not only intimate access to members of a household, but to an array of food and drink, medicine, even pest control toxins. Women have always been closest to the victim and the victual.

And let’s face it: women simply evoke less suspicion. Who really believes a young, sheepish housemaid capable of killing her prosperous employer? 

Poison, when done right, leaves no trace: no wound, no evidence. This would logically appeal to a female killer who, fearing she may be physically weaker than a man, needs to avoid a direct confrontation. Said another way: poison lets a woman be sly about things. 

Arguably the most well-known historical female poisoner is Giulia Tofana, an Italian woman who lived in the mid-17th century. She invented the concoction known as Aqua Tofana, which contained arsenic, lead, and belladonna. It was colorless and tasteless and therefore easily mixed with food or wine. Aqua Tofana was an especially cunning poison because it did not kill the victim immediately, but rather multiple doses were necessary, giving indication that a patient grew ill over a period of days or weeks. 

Giulia Tofana was known to frolic with apothecaries, hence her strong knowledge of toxins and their uses. She sold her famous concoction to women who wanted to escape their abusive or inconvenient husbands. Ultimately, under torture before her death, she confessed to killing 600 men.

I’m often asked if Giulia Tofana inspired the apothecary poisoner in The Lost Apothecary, and the answer is no. I centered my research around English poisoners in the 18th and 19th centuries, and I’m almost embarrassed to admit that I didn’t learn about Giulia Tofana until well after the book had been written. 

Still, there’s a reason I was drawn to the idea of women poisoners and, more importantly, the ways that women sought agency in a historical sense. The Lost Apothecary is an exploration of women rebelling against the patriarchy and exerting power in one of the only ways available to them. Prior to the mid-20th century, leaving a marriage or household employment due to abuse or betrayal was not really an option. It meant poverty, homelessness, physical abuse, even legal repercussions. In The Lost Apothecary, I propose an alternative: don’t leave, just get rid of the man. I provide a few (fictional) examples of this, such as a young housemaid seeking vengeance on her employer, or a disgruntled wife whose husband is having an affair, or a sister who discovers that her brother intends to kill their beloved father.

The Lost Apothecary takes place in 1791. The late 18th century was an ideal time to set a book about an apothecary poisoner, because it wasn’t until the mid-19th  century that early toxicologists were able to reliably detect poison in human tissue. In bills of mortality prior to this time, poisoning homicide is little more than a footnote. Yet after this science came to fruition, poisoning deaths skyrocketed. Coincidence? No. People had always used poison to seek vengeance, but these deaths were chalked up to other causes. Further proof that poison really is the perfect murder weapon, at least two hundred years ago.

One of the characters in The Lost Apothecary says it quite succinctly: A killer need not lift her long, delicate hand. She need not touch him as he dies. There are other, wiser ways: vials and victuals. 

Leave it to the women to find a way to kill a man without so much as touching him.

Join Sarah Tuesday, May 10 at 1pm Eastern for her webinar: Unburying the Secrets of The Lost Apothecary. Our webinars are free to The Herb Society of America members and $5.00 for guests. Become a member today, and enjoy all of our webinars for free along with access to the webinar library with over fifty program titles. To register, visit https://www.herbsociety.org/hsa-learn/herb-education/hsa-webinars/

Photo Credits: 1) The Love Potion, by Evelyn De Morgan (public domain); 2) A Glass of Wine with Caesar Borgia, by John Collier (public domain); 3) Sketch of Circe, by John William Waterhouse (public domain); 4) Sarah Penner and The Lost Apothecary (courtesy of the author).

The Other Side of Yew

By Erin Holden

As an herbalist I’m interested in many aspects of plants – from their use in herbal and conventional medicine, to lore that informs us how those in the past viewed the plant. I knew that Taxol was a cancer drug made from the yew tree, but when a friend mentioned its poisonous aspects, I decided to dig a bit deeper.

Taxol, the well-known cancer treatment, was first isolated and studied in the early 1960s into the late 1970s, and approved as a cancer drug in the early 1990s. Paclitaxel, the common chemical name of Taxol, was initially extracted from the bark of the Pacific yew (Taxus brevifolia). It was quickly realized that extracting enough paclitaxel to meet demand would wipe out this species in short order, so scientists turned to its faster-growing cousin, the European yew (Taxus baccata), as an alternative. A precursor of Taxol is extracted from the leaves of the European yew and then synthesized into the desired drug. Use of the leaves instead of the bark, as well as its fast growth, means the European yew is a more sustainable source of this cancer treatment.

This all sounds well and good, but if we look at the history of yew, we see that it didn’t always have the best reputation – quite the opposite. Whereas Taxol belongs to a chemical group called taxanes, another group, the taxines, is quite deadly. These toxic compounds are found in every part of all Taxus species, in varying amounts, except for the red, fleshy aril. When ingested, taxines act directly on the heart and inhibit its ability to pump properly, causing a drastic drop in blood pressure, arrhythmias, and death. There is no treatment for yew poisoning, and supportive care is not always successful in saving a patient. A brief peek into the medical literature shows that yew has been used in many suicide attempts, both successful and non-fatal. Even as far back as 53 B.C., Julius Caesar recounts how a king of Eburones, Cativolcus, took his own life by drinking the juice of the yew. This deadly aspect of yew, as well as its evergreen nature, likely contributed to yew being associated with death and immortality in both Druidic and Christian cultures.

While researching, I stumbled upon an interesting “explanation” for how yews became poisonous, written in the 17th century. Since Druids considered yew sacred, many were planted all over England. Their long association with death likely led to cemeteries of new churches being placed near the trees. It was thought that decaying bodies released noxious gases on the south and west sides of a church yard, which then gathered under and were taken up by the yews. Yew roots were thought to “run and suck nourishment” from the dead, whose flesh is “the rankest poison that could be”, and so the trees themselves became poisonous. Because of this association, the church itself was built on the north or north east side of existing trees (https://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2015/10/31/beneath-the-yew-trees-shade/).

I find it fascinating how facts and lore surrounding a plant can mix and have such an impact on various aspects of human activity – from medicine to community planning. And how a life-saving plant can also have a sinister side. Think about it the next time you pass by your ornamental yew. 

Photo Credits: 1) Taxus baccata arils (Frank Vincentz, Wikimedia); 2)Taxus baccata at The Church of St Mary and All Saints in Great Britain (Maigheach-gheal, geograph.org.uk/p/2209844); 3) Line of yew trees in the churchyard of St. Mary and St. Christopher’s Church, Painfield, Essex, England (Image © Acabashi; Creative Commons CC-BY-SA 4.0; Source: Wikimedia Commons)

 Resources:

Grobosch, T. et al. (2013). Eight cases of fatal and non-fatal poisoning with Taxus baccata; Forensic Science International, vol. 227, issues 1-3, pgs 118-126. https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S0379073812005324?via%3Dihub

Laqueur, T. W. (2015). Beneath the yew tree’s shade. The Paris Review. https://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2015/10/31/beneath-the-yew-trees-shade/; Accessed 2/22/2021. 

Lee, M.R. (1998); The yew tree (Taxus baccata) in mythology and medicine. Proc. R. Coll. Physicians Edinb. vol. 28: 569-575;  https://www.rcpe.ac.uk/sites/default/files/vol28_4.1_12.pdf

National Cancer Institute; Success Story: Taxol® (NSC 125973) https://dtp.cancer.gov/timeline/flash/success_stories/S2_Taxol.htm; Accessed Jan 22, 2021.

Rickard, J. (26 March 2009); Cativolcus, king of the Eburones, d. 53 B.C.  http://www.historyofwar.org/articles/people_cativolcus.html; Accessed 1/22/2021.

Medicinal Disclaimer: It is the policy of The Herb Society of America, Inc. not to advise or recommend herbs for medicinal or health use. This information is intended for educational purposes only and should not be considered as a recommendation or an endorsement of any particular medical or health treatment. Please consult a health care provider before pursuing any herbal treatments.

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Erin is the gardener for the National Herb Garden at the U.S. National Arboretum in Washington, D.C. She is a member of the American Herbalists Guild, United Plant Savers, and a member-at-large of the Herb Society of America.

HSA Webinar: Hamlet’s Poison: The Mystery of Hebanon & Shakespeare’s Other Deadly Plants

By Jen Munson, HSA Education Chair

‘There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance; pray, love, remember: and there is pansies. that’s for thoughts.’ (Hamlet 4.5.248)

William Shakespeare’s poetic plays are filled with dramatic imagery and references to plants, herbs, trees, vegetables, and other botanicals. Shakespeare’s awareness of the botanical world was near the level of herbalists of that period, and the use of plants throughout his plays is done with unparalleled sophistication. They are used to enhance ideas and describe characters, as well as for metaphors. For example, Hamlet describes the state of Denmark as “…an unweeded garden / That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature” (Hamlet 1.22.134-136). 

Plants are used for evil doings and central plot development. They are transformed into potions that are  lust invoking, (Viola tricolor in Midsummer Nights Dream), sleep inducing (Atropa belladonna in Romeo and Juliet), and as poisons for dipping swords and arrows (Hyoscyamus niger in Hamlet). As All Hallows’ Eve approaches, what better time to explore the dark side of botanicals by learning about the many plants cited by Shakespeare. 

Join HSA on October 22nd at 1pm EDT for Hamlet’s Poison: The Mystery of Hebanon & Shakespeare’s Other Deadly Plants, with guest speaker and author Gerit Quealy. During this program Gerit Quealy will take a Law & Order approach to Shakespeare’s poison plants, including what killed Hamlet’s father. The symptoms of the various specimens will be examined, along with the use of forensic evidence, to catch the conscience of the king! Our webinars are free to members and $5.00 for guests. Visit  https://www.herbsociety.org/hsa-learn/hsa-webinars or click here to sign up.

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Gerit Quealy is an author, actor, and journalist. Her 2017 publication, Botanical Shakespeare (Harper Design/HarperCollins), reveals Shakespeare’s keen awareness of botany alongside his ability to catapult nature into the land of emotion and metaphor, creating some of the world’s most unforgettable passages. The over 170 flowers, fruits, grains, grasses, trees, herbs, seeds, and vegetables that are named in Shakespeare’s poems and plays, alongside all the lines in which they appear, are highlighted in this unique book. As a journalist, she has covered everything from lipstick to Shakespeare, with pieces ranging from dollhouses to birdhouses to beauty, brownies, and brides in outlets including The New York Times, Country Living, Woman’s Day, and Modern Bride, to name a few.

A Bit about Bitters, Part I

By Erin Holden

From grapefruit to coffee to arugula – lots of plants are bitter. And while some people will cross the street to avoid a bitter veggie, others can’t seem to get enough. Why is this? Join me on a two part journey as I delve into the science and use of one of nature’s most divisive flavors.

The What: How do you define a bitter? If you’re a chemist, they’re structurally unrelated compounds that, well, taste bitter. If you’re an herbalist, bitters are plants that are used for their therapeutic effect on the digestive system. And if you’re a bartender, bitters are aromatic flavoring agents made from various plant parts to enhance the taste of a drink. Based on these definitions it’s easy to see that bitters fulfill many roles in our lives. But why can we taste bitter to begin with?

The Why: The main reason plants create bitter compounds boils down to one simple thing: defense. Since plants can’t run and hide from predators, they devised their own chemical defense system – the first instance of chemical warfare, you could say. When an insect bites into, say, a broccoli plant, it gets a mouthful of glucosinolates, sulfur containing compounds that are toxic to insects and rodents, and gross to some people. Plants see us as essentially giant rodents that want to eat them, and create a wide variety of nasty tasting compounds to deter us from doing so. In turn, since some of these compounds not only taste bad but can also kill humans, we evolved taste receptors to detect them, therefore potentially skirting death.

The Where: So, where exactly do we have these taste receptors? I’m sure many of you learned the “flavor map” of the tongue in school, like I did, which outlines where we can detect sweet, sour, salty, and bitter (poor umami got left out on that one). Well I’m here to tell you, that map is bunk! It’s based on the misinterpretation of a graph from 1942, that plotted out areas of relative sensitivity of the tongue to the various flavors. Later on, low areas of sensitivity were mistakenly interpreted as having no sensitivity, leading to the incorrect map we’re all familiar with today. All flavors can be detected across the whole tongue, the back of the roof of the mouth, and the epiglottis. Other research has suggested that while areas of the tongue do show varying levels of sensitivity to the five known flavors, these differences are not significant (Wanjek, 2006).

Photo Credit: MesserWoland

Having taste receptors on the tongue is no surprise, but you may be surprised to learn bitter receptors have also been found in the brains, airways, gastrointestinal tract, testes, and pancreas of various mammals (including humans). This leads back to WHY? The prevailing hypotheses boil down to the same thing – protection. If our airways are full of bacteria that are producing bitter compounds, our cough response is triggered, so we cough up and expel the offending invader. If an ingested bitter toxin makes its way to our guts, it’ll essentially trip the “abandon ship” alarm, causing our body to purge itself of the potential poison in unpleasant ways.

I’ll stop there with that thought. Keep an eye out for the follow-up, where I’ll talk about the historical uses of bitters, their role in herbal medicine, and mention some specific bitter herbs.

Wanjek, C. 2006. The tongue map: Tasteless myth debunked. Live Science. From Livescience.com. Accessed January 31, 2019. Available from https://www.livescience.com/7113-tongue-map-tasteless-myth-debunked.html on 1/31/2019

Medicinal Disclaimer: It is the policy of The Herb Society of America, Inc. not to advise or recommend herbs for medicinal or health use. This information is intended for educational purposes only and should not be considered as a recommendation or an endorsement of any particular medical or health treatment. Please consult a health care provider before pursuing any herbal treatments.

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Erin Holden is the gardener for the National Bonsai and Penjing Museum at the U.S. National Arboretum in Washington, D.C. She is a member of the American Herbalists Guild, United Plant Savers, and a member-at-large of the Herb Society of America.

 

 

 

Do you consider poisonous plants to be herbs?

By Paris Wolfe, Blogmaster, The Herb Society of America

Most of us grow herbs to treat the senses with beauty, aroma or taste. We may tap their chemical properties to treat internal or external illness. Whatever the case, we likely use plant material to enhance life.

That wasn’t (isn’t?)  always the case. The poison garden had a special place in history as a way to off the enemy. In a demonstration garden, Blarney Castle in Ireland grows plants that are so dangerous and toxic that they may be kept in “cages.” Included in the collection are wolfsbane, mandrake, ricin, opium and cannabis. Brave visitors can read labels with information about their toxicity and traditional and modern uses.

Ironically, some plants now known to be toxic were once used widely as herbal remedies. And, perhaps some of their components still are.

Recognizing a fascination with these “magical” plants, the Cleveland Museum of Natural History is in the final weeks of “The Power of Poison.” This exhibition, which ends July 24, 2016, includes plant toxins’ roles in nature and human history as weapon, defense and lifesaving healer.

People have long put poison to work—using it in hunting and fishing, making dyes and pigments, developing pesticides and herbicides, and even as a path to altered consciousness. And breakthrough medical applications continue to elevate that “magic.”

Poisonous Hemlock

In the exhibit, visitors learn about the powers of belladonna, hemlock, monkshood, and rhododendron.  Hemlock (not the tree), for example, contains a toxin that was used to sedate and to treat spasms, but can cause death; the ancient Greek philosopher Socrates was executed by being forced to drink hemlock brew.

Children (and adults) may be titillated with tales of the manchineel tree, the most poisonous tree in the world. The manchineel’s milky white sap is so dangerous that even a drop can cause skin irritation or burns. The sap is so caustic that even the rain drops coming from the branches can cause burns.

What do you think … are poisonous plants considered herbs?