History of circumcision from the earliest times to the present

The Story

The history of circumcision is, as this account suggests, a chronicle of physical ritual that predates recorded time. It begins in the cradle of civilization, where the practice was far from uniform in its meaning. In ancient Egypt, circumcision served as a mark of distinction for the priesthood, often coupled with total body depilation to ensure ritual purity. Over time, this status-marker migrated to royalty and the warrior classes, suggesting that the operation was viewed as both a hygienic necessity and an aristocratic privilege. The narrative moves through the classical world, noting that even Greek philosophers in the circle of Pythagoras embraced the practice, though it remained largely restricted to the intellectual elite rather than becoming a universal mandate.

As the text shifts to the medieval and early modern periods, the focus turns to the geopolitical and tax-related implications of the rite. In regions under Ottoman rule, the physical presence or absence of a foreskin became a primary identifier for tax collectors. Christians were often forced to prove their non-circumcised status to avoid the imposts levied by the state, while in some instances, converts to Islam were coerced into the operation through the use of stupefying draughts or the promise of financial reward. This historical thread illustrates how a biological mark became a political tool, used by authorities to distinguish the taxable subject from the religious adherent.

The narrative also details the friction between emerging Christian doctrine and the established Mosaic Law. While early apostles debated the necessity of circumcision, the eventually dominant Christian tradition sought to distance itself from what was increasingly viewed as a Jewish or "infidel" rite. This tension caused significant diplomatic and religious scandals, most notably when Abyssinian Christians—who retained the practice—were met with hostility by European clergy who viewed the custom as incompatible with the sacraments of the Church. The author uses these instances to show that the rejection of the practice was often as much about defining the boundaries of a new, distinct religious identity as it was about theology.

Moving into the realm of medical history, the work broadens its scope to include other genital modifications, such as eunuchism and hermaphrodism. The author draws a direct, albeit provocative, line between the historical practice of castration for state service and the contemporary desire for reliable, uncorrupted public officials. By examining the methods of emasculation—from the refined, low-mortality techniques of the Orient to the brutal, high-mortality methods used in the West—the text argues that the physical state of the body has long been viewed as a proxy for moral and psychological docility.

The latter portion of the argument pivots to the modern physician’s perspective, shifting away from religious debate toward a purely clinical justification. Drawing on mid-19th-century surgical literature, the book posits that the prepuce is a vestigial, often "mischievous" appendage prone to disease, including cancer, gangrene, and reflex nervous disorders. The author presents case studies—such as the recovery of a patient from convulsions following the discovery and removal of a constricting band—to argue that many systemic ailments in children and adults are "reflex" conditions stemming from local genital irritation. The conclusion is a firm endorsement of the practice as a prophylactic measure, framing the modern surgeon’s scalpel as the heir to the ancient stone knife, stripped of religious mystery and repurposed for the maintenance of physical health.

The People

• P. C. Remondino: The author and physician who serves as the central voice and organizer of these records. He positions himself as a scientific pragmatist, seeking to extract the "natural history" of the body from the layers of religious superstition and political tradition that have obscured its medical utility.
• The Mohel: The traditional ministerial circumciser. Remondino treats the mohel as a figure of historical continuity, whose role—though often misunderstood by outsiders—represents the preservation of a ritual compact that has survived since the stone age.
• The Abyssinian Bishop: A representative of the early, isolated Christian communities who maintained the rite despite European pressure. He stands as a symbol of the friction between regional, deep-rooted traditions and the universalizing, often exclusionary demands of the wider Church.
• The Turkish Tax-Gatherer: A cynical, pragmatic figure used to illustrate the political utility of the body. He represents the way in which personal, physical attributes can be commodified by the state to enforce taxes and regulate social status.
• John English: A patient described in a clinical case study. He serves as the personification of the author’s primary argument: a man whose unexplained, severe physical and mental suffering—manifesting as convulsions—is resolved instantaneously by the removal of a mechanical obstruction.

In Its Own Voice

The author acknowledges the difficulty of pinning down the exact moment when the practice shifted from a religious or social requirement to a medical choice:

Probably no rite or practice of a custom has been such a long-standing bone of contention as circumcision; nor does the Sphynx surpass this relic of bygone ages in mystery.

The author frames the practice as a means to achieve a standard of cleanliness that he believes defines a more enlightened medical class:

In the United States, France, and in England, there is a class which also observe circumcision as a hygienic precaution, where, from my personal observation, I have found that circumcision is thoroughly practiced in every male member of many of the families of the class,—this being the physician class.

Regarding the perceived "uselessness" of the anatomical structure in question, the author notes:

...every erection, by putting the penis-integument on the stretch, adds to its bulk,—nature naturally trying to make up the deficiency,—the two points of resistance being where the glans pushes it ahead, having the constricting orifice for a hold or purchase, and the skin at the pubes, which is called upon to furnish the extra tissue for the time being needed during erection, which should be supplied by the prepuce—this being the only office which I have been able to assign to this otherwise useless but very mischievous appendage.

What It's Really About

This book is a bridge between the ancient world of ritual sacrifice and the emerging 19th-century medical obsession with "reflex" pathology. It is fundamentally an argument for the supremacy of clinical observation over tradition. The author seeks to reclaim the practice of circumcision from the realms of theology and social custom, rebranding it as a rational, hygienic necessity. He operates on the belief that "the study of man" is the highest calling, and that by peering into the "dim and misty past," one can uncover biological truths that have been suppressed by misplaced sentimentality or "delicacy of sentiment."

The text explores the persistent human desire to master the body through modification. Whether the subject is the castration of eunuchs for bureaucratic stability or the circumcision of children to prevent nervous disorders, the central question is how much the physical state of the genitals dictates the moral and mental health of the individual. The author argues that our "civilized" modes of dress and sedentary, luxurious lives have made our bodies weaker than those of our ancestors, requiring surgical intervention to correct the "unnatural" constrictions of modern existence.

Furthermore, the book serves as a critique of religious institutions that, in the author's view, have failed to understand the practical, physical needs of their congregations. He suggests that the conflict between science and religion is largely unnecessary, caused by the failure of the latter to speak plainly about the body. By comparing the "plain talk" of the ancient Hebrew tradition to the "rhetorical flourishes" of modern preachers, he advocates for a return to a more primitive, direct engagement with physical realities.

Ultimately, the book is about the power of the surgeon to act as a arbiter of the human condition. It argues that physical, moral, and mental wreckage can be avoided through the intelligent application of the knife. It creates a taxonomy of the body, where every "warty excrescence" or "preputial appendage" is not just a biological feature, but a potential site of disease that demands professional oversight. The work seeks to normalize medical intervention as the standard for a healthy, functioning, and stable society, placing the physician at the center of the domestic and social economy.

Why Read It Today

Reading this work today offers a fascinating, if sometimes jarring, glimpse into the medical mindset of the late 19th century. Readers will likely be struck by the author’s confidence in his own era’s scientific progress, even as he relies on anecdotes, historical hearsay, and theories about "reflex" nervous conditions that have long since been superseded by modern neurology. The prose is warm and conversational, yet it carries the distinct, authoritative tone of a Victorian-era physician who feels entirely comfortable dispensing advice on everything from the moral character of eunuchs to the proper diet of Jewish families in California.

Those interested in the history of science or the history of medicine will find it an essential primary source for understanding how the medical community of the 1890s justified and promoted a surgery that was moving from a religious custom to a mainstream medical standard. It captures a specific moment in the transition of American medicine, where physicians were increasingly positioning themselves as the primary authorities on human behavior and morality, not just physical illness.

It is important to approach the book with an awareness of its era’s biases and its author’s sometimes blunt, Eurocentric worldview. The author’s habit of linking "the shape of the penis" to the domestic stability of households and his dismissive attitude toward those who find such topics "delicate" can be startling. However, there is a certain charm in his intellectual restlessness; he is genuinely curious about the "natural history of man" and refuses to leave any stone—or historical account—unturned. What stays with you is the author's unwavering conviction that the surgeon's scalpel is a tool of liberation. Even if the modern reader disagrees with his conclusions, the book provides a vivid, detailed map of the intellectual path that led to the contemporary medical consensus on the surgery, revealing how a practice rooted in the ancient stone age was successfully translated into the language of modern clinical hygiene.