A SKETCH OF ALCHEMICAL THEORY.
The system which began to be called _alchemy_ in the 6th and 7th
centuries of our era had no special name before that time, but was
known as _the sacred art, the divine science, the occult science, the
art of Hermes_.
A commentator on Aristotle, writing in the 4th century A.D., calls
certain instruments used for fusion and calcination "_chuika organa_,"
that is, instruments for melting and pouring. Hence, probably, came
the adjective _chyic_ or _chymic_, and, at a somewhat later time, the
word _chemia_ as the name of that art which deals with calcinations,
fusions, meltings, and the like. The writer of a treatise on
astrology, in the 5th century, speaking of the influences of the stars
on the dispositions of man, says: "If a man is born under Mercury he
will give himself to astronomy; if Mars, he will follow the profession
of arms; if Saturn, he will devote himself to the science of alchemy
(_Scientia alchemiae_)." The word _alchemia_ which appears in this
treatise, was formed by prefixing the Arabic _al_ (meaning _the_) to
_chemia_, a word, as we have seen, of Greek origin.
It is the growth, development, and transformation into chemistry, of
this _alchemia_ which we have to consider.
Alchemy, that is, _the_ art of melting, pouring, and transforming,
must necessarily pay much attention to working with crucibles,
furnaces, alembics, and other vessels wherein things are fused,
distilled, calcined, and dissolved. The old drawings of alchemical
operations show us men busy calcining, cohobating, distilling,
dissolving, digesting, and performing other processes of like
character to these.
The alchemists could not be accused of laziness or aversion to work in
their laboratories. Paracelsus (16th century) says of them: "They are
not given to idleness, nor go in a proud habit, or plush and velvet
garments, often showing their rings on their fingers, or wearing
swords with silver hilts by their sides, or fine and gay gloves on
their hands; but diligently follow their labours, sweating whole days
and nights by their furnaces. They do not spend their time abroad for
recreation, but take delight in their laboratories. They put their
fingers among coals, into clay and filth, not into gold rings. They
are sooty and black, like smiths and miners, and do not pride
themselves upon clean and beautiful faces."
In these respects the chemist of to-day faithfully follows the
practice of the alchemists who were his predecessors. You can nose a
chemist in a crowd by the smell of the laboratory which hangs about
him; you can pick him out by the stains on his hands and clothes. He
also "takes delight in his laboratory"; he does not always "pride
himself on a clean and beautiful face"; he "sweats whole days and
nights by his furnace."
Why does the chemist toil so eagerly? Why did the alchemists so
untiringly pursue their quest? I think it is not unfair to say: the
chemist experiments in order that he "may liken his imaginings to the
facts which he observes"; the alchemist toiled that he might liken the
facts which he observed to his imaginings. The difference may be put
in another way by saying: the chemist's object is to discover "how
changes happen in combinations of the unchanging"; the alchemist's
endeavour was to prove the truth of his fundamental assertion, "that
every substance contains undeveloped resources and potentialities, and
can be brought outward and forward into perfection."
Looking around him, and observing the changes of things, the alchemist
was deeply impressed by the growth and modification of plants and
animals; he argued that minerals and metals also grow, change,
develop. He said in effect: "Nature is one, there must be unity in all
the diversity I see. When a grain of corn falls into the earth it
dies, but this dying is the first step towards a new life; the dead
seed is changed into the living plant. So it must be with all other
things in nature: the mineral, or the metal, seems dead when it is
buried in the earth, but, in reality, it is growing, changing, and
becoming more perfect." The perfection of the seed is the plant. What
is the perfection of the common metals? "Evidently," the alchemist
replied, "the perfect metal is gold; the common metals are trying to
become gold." "Gold is the intention of Nature in regard to all
metals," said an alchemical writer. Plants are preserved by the
preservation of their seed. "In like manner," the alchemist's argument
proceeded, "there must be a seed in metals which is their essence; if
I can separate the seed and bring it under the proper conditions, I
can cause it to grow into the perfect metal." "Animal life, and human
life also," we may suppose the alchemist saying, "are continued by the
same method as that whereby the life of plants is continued; all life
springs from seed; the seed is fructified by the union of the male and
the female; in metals also there must be the two characters; the union
of these is needed for the production of new metals; the conjoining of
metals must go before the birth of the perfect metal."
"Now," we may suppose the argument to proceed, "now, the passage from
the imperfect to the more perfect is not easy. It is harder to
practise virtue than to acquiesce in vice; virtue comes not naturally
to man; that he may gain the higher life, he must be helped by grace.
Therefore, the task of exalting the purer metals into the perfect
gold, of developing the lower order into the higher, is not easy. If
Nature does this, she does it slowly and painfully; if the exaltation
of the common metals to a higher plane is to be effected rapidly, it
can be done only by the help of man."
So far as I can judge from their writings, the argument of the
alchemists may be rendered by some such form as the foregoing. A
careful examination of the alchemical argument shows that it rests on
a (supposed) intimate knowledge of nature's plan of working, and the
certainty that simplicity is the essential mark of that plan.
That the alchemists were satisfied of the great simplicity of nature,
and their own knowledge of the ways of nature's work, is apparent from
their writings.
The author of _The New Chemical Light_ (17th century) says:
"Simplicity is the seal of truth.... Nature is wonderfully simple, and
the characteristic mark of a childlike simplicity is stamped upon all
that is true and noble in Nature." In another place the same author
says: "Nature is one, true, simple, self-contained, created of God,
and informed with a certain universal spirit." The same author,
Michael Sendivogius, remarks: "It may be asked how I come to have this
knowledge about heavenly things which are far removed beyond human
ken. My answer is that the sages have been taught by God that this
natural world is only an image and material copy of a heavenly and
spiritual pattern; that the very existence of this world is based upon
the reality of its heavenly archetype.... Thus the sage sees heaven
reflected in Nature as in a mirror, and he pursues this Art, not for
the sake of gold or silver, but for the love of the knowledge which it
reveals."
The _Only True Way_ advises all who wish to become true alchemists to
leave the circuitous paths of pretended philosophers, and to follow
nature, which is simple; the complicated processes described in books
are said to be the traps laid by the "cunning sophists" to catch the
unwary.
In _A Catechism of Alchemy_, Paracelsus asks: "What road should the
philosopher follow?" He answers, "That exactly which was followed by
the Great Architect of the Universe in the creation of the world."
One might suppose it would be easier, and perhaps more profitable, to
examine, observe, and experiment, than to turn one's eyes inwards with
the hope of discovering exactly "the road followed by the Great
Architect of the Universe in the creation of the world." But the
alchemical method found it easier to begin by introspection. The
alchemist spun his universe from his own ideas of order, symmetry, and
simplicity, as the spider spins her web from her own substance.
A favourite saying of the alchemists was, "What is above is as what is
below." In one of its aspects this saying meant, "processes happen
within the earth like those which occur on the earth; minerals and
metals live, as animals and plants live; all pass through corruption
towards perfection." In another aspect the saying meant "the human
being is the world in miniature; as is the microcosm, so is the
macrocosm; to know oneself is to know all the world."
Every man knows he ought to try to rise to better things, and many men
endeavour to do what they know they ought to do; therefore, he who
feels sure that all nature is fashioned after the image of man,
projects his own ideas of progress, development, virtue, matter and
spirit, on to nature outside himself; and, as a matter of course, this
kind of naturalist uses the same language when he is speaking of the
changes of material things as he employs to express the changes of his
mental states, his hopes, fears, aspirations, and struggles.
The language of the alchemists was, therefore, rich in such
expressions as these; "the elements are to be so conjoined that the
nobler and fuller life may be produced"; "our arcanum is gold exalted
to the highest degree of perfection to which the combined action of
nature and art can develop it."
Such commingling of ethical and physical ideas, such application of
moral conceptions to material phenomena, was characteristic of the
alchemical method of regarding nature. The necessary results were;
great confusion of thought, much mystification of ideas, and a
superabundance of _views_ about natural events.
When the author of _The Metamorphosis of Metals_ was seeking for an
argument in favour of his view, that water is the source and primal
element of all things, he found what he sought in the Biblical text:
"In the beginning the spirit of God moved upon the face of the
waters." Similarly, the author of _The Sodic Hydrolith_ clenches his
argument in favour of the existence of the Philosopher's Stone, by the
quotation: "Therefore, thus saith the Lord; behold I lay in Zion for a
foundation a Stone, a tried Stone, a precious corner Stone, a sure
foundation. He that has it shall not be confounded." This author works
out in detail an analogy between the functions and virtues of the
_Stone_, and the story of man's fall and redemption, as set forth in
the Old and New Testaments. The same author speaks of "Satan, that
grim pseudo-alchemist."
That the attribution, by the alchemists, of moral virtues and vices to
natural things was in keeping with some deep-seated tendency of human
nature, is shown by the persistence of some of their methods of
stating the properties of substances: we still speak of "perfect and
imperfect gases," "noble and base metals," "good and bad conductors of
electricity," and "laws governing natural phenomena."
Convinced of the simplicity of nature, certain that all natural events
follow one course, sure that this course was known to them and was
represented by the growth of plants and animals, the alchemists set
themselves the task, firstly, of proving by observations and
experiments that their view of natural occurrences was correct; and,
secondly, of discovering and gaining possession of the instrument
whereby nature effects her transmutations and perfects her operations.
The mastery of this instrument would give them power to change any
metal into gold, the cure of all diseases, and the happiness which
must come from the practical knowledge of the supreme secret of
nature.
The central quest of alchemy was the quest of an undefined and
undefinable something wherein was supposed to be contained all the
powers and potencies of life, and whatever makes life worth living.
The names given to this mystical something were as many as the
properties which were assigned to it. It was called _the one thing,
the essence, the philosopher's stone, the stone of wisdom, the
heavenly balm, the divine water, the virgin water, the carbuncle of
the sun, the old dragon, the lion, the basilisk, the phoenix_; and
many other names were given to it.
We may come near to expressing the alchemist's view of the essential
character of the object of their search by naming it _the soul of all
things_. "Alchemy," a modern writer says, "is the science of the soul
of all things."
The essence was supposed to have a material form, an ethereal or
middle nature, and an immaterial or spiritual life.
No one might hope to make this essence from any one substance,
because, as one of the alchemists says, "It is the attribute of God
alone to make one out of one; you must produce one thing out of two
by natural generation." The alchemists did not pretend to create gold,
but only to produce it from other things.
The author of _A Brief Guide to the Celestial Ruby_ says: "We do not,
as is sometimes said, profess to create gold and silver, but only to
find an agent which ... is capable of entering into an intimate and
maturing union with the Mercury of the base metals." And again: "Our
Art ... only arrogates to itself the power of developing, through the
removal of all defects and superfluities, the golden nature which the
baser metals possess." Bonus, in his tract on _The New Pearl of Great
Price_ (16th century), says: "The Art of Alchemy ... does not create
metals, or even develop them out of the metallic first-substance; it
only takes up the unfinished handicraft of Nature and completes it....
Nature has only left a comparatively small thing for the artist to
do--the completion of that which she has already begun."
If the essence were ever attained, it would be by following the course
which nature follows in producing the perfect plant from the imperfect
seed, by discovering and separating the seed of metals, and bringing
that seed under the conditions which alone are suitable for its
growth. Metals must have seed, the alchemists said, for it would be
absurd to suppose they have none. "What prerogative have vegetables
above metals," exclaims one of them, "that God should give seed to the
one and withhold it from the other? Are not metals as much in His
sight as trees?"
As metals, then, possess seed, it is evident how this seed is to be
made active; the seed of a plant is quickened by descending into the
earth, therefore the seed of metals must be destroyed before it
becomes life-producing. "The processes of our art must begin with
dissolution of gold; they must terminate in a restoration of the
essential quality of gold." "Gold does not easily give up its nature,
and will fight for its life; but our agent is strong enough to
overcome and kill it, and then it also has power to restore it to
life, and to change the lifeless remains into a new and pure body."
The application of the doctrine of the existence of seed in metals led
to the performance of many experiments, and, hence, to the
accumulation of a considerable body of facts established by
experimental inquiries. The belief of the alchemists that all natural
events are connected by a hidden thread, that everything has an
influence on other things, that "what is above is as what is below,"
constrained them to place stress on the supposed connexion between the
planets and the metals, and to further their metallic transformations
by performing them at times when certain planets were in conjunction.
The seven principal planets and the seven principal metals were called
by the same names: _Sol_ (gold), _Luna_ (silver), _Saturn_ (lead),
_Jupiter_ (tin), _Mars_ (iron), _Venus_ (copper), and _Mercury_
(mercury). The author of _The New Chemical Light_ taught that one
metal could be propagated from another only in the order of
superiority of the planets. He placed the seven planets in the
following descending order: Saturn, Jupiter, Mars, Sol, Venus,
Mercury, Luna. "The virtues of the planets descend," he said, "but do
not ascend"; it is easy to change Mars (iron) into Venus (copper), for
instance, but Venus cannot be transformed into Mars.
Although the alchemists regarded everything as influencing, and
influenced by, other things, they were persuaded that the greatest
effects are produced on a substance by substances of like nature with
itself. Hence, most of them taught that the seed of metals will be
obtained by operations with metals, not by the action on metals of
things of animal or vegetable origin. Each class of substances, they
said, has a life, or spirit (an essential character, we might say) of
its own. "The life of sulphur," Paracelsus said, "is a combustible,
ill-smelling, fatness.... The life of gems and corals is mere
colour.... The life of water is its flowing.... The life of fire is
air." Grant an attraction of like to like, and the reason becomes
apparent for such directions as these: "Nothing heterogeneous must be
introduced into our magistery"; "Everything should be made to act on
that which is like it, and then Nature will perform her duty."
Although each class of substances was said by the alchemists to have
its own particular character, or life, nevertheless they taught that
there is a deep-seated likeness between all things, inasmuch as the
power of _the essence_, or _the one thing_, is so great that under its
influence different things are produced from the same origin, and
different things are caused to pass into and become the same thing.
In _The New Chemical Light_ it is said: "While the seed of all things
is one, it is made to generate a great variety of things."
It is not easy now--it could not have been easy at any time--to give
clear and exact meanings to the doctrines of the alchemists, or the
directions they gave for performing the operations necessary for the
production of the object of their search. And the difficulty is much
increased when we are told that "The Sage jealously conceals [his
knowledge] from the sinner and the scornful, lest the mysteries of
heaven should be laid bare to the vulgar gaze." We almost despair when
an alchemical writer assures us that the Sages "Set pen to paper for
the express purpose of concealing their meaning. The sense of a whole
passage is often hopelessly obscured by the addition or omission of
one little word, for instance the addition of the word _not_ in the
wrong place." Another writer says: "The Sages are in the habit of
using words which may convey either a true or a false impression; the
former to their own disciples and children, the latter to the
ignorant, the foolish, and the unworthy." Sometimes, after
descriptions of processes couched in strange and mystical language,
the writer will add, "If you cannot perceive what you ought to
understand herein, you should not devote yourself to the study of
philosophy." Philalethes, in his _Brief Guide to the Celestial Ruby_,
seems to feel some pity for his readers; after describing what he
calls "the generic homogeneous water of gold," he says: "If you wish
for a more particular description of our water, I am impelled by
motives of charity to tell you that it is living, flexible, clear,
nitid, white as snow, hot, humid, airy, vaporous, and digestive."
Alchemy began by asserting that nature must be simple; it assumed that
a knowledge of the plan and method of natural occurrences is to be
obtained by thinking; and it used analogy as the guide in applying
this knowledge of nature's design to particular events, especially the
analogy, assumed by alchemy to exist, between material phenomena and
human emotions.