such a wheel at the time and place which he names, I have not the least
doubt. And that some of the weights on one side hung a foot further from
the center than did weights on the other side is also no doubt true,
but, as the judging of the "consequence" is left to ourselves we know
that after the first impulse given to it had been expended, the wheel
would simply stand still unless kept in motion by some external force.
[Illustration: Fig. 17.]
Mr. Dircks in his "Life, Times and Scientific Labours of the Second
Marquis of Worcester," gives an engraving of a wheel which complies with
all the conditions laid down by the Marquis and which is thus described:
"Let the annexed diagram, Fig. 17, represent a wheel of 14 feet in
diameter, having 40 spokes, seven feet each, and with an inner rim
coinciding with the periphery, at one foot distance all round. Next
provide 40 balls or weights, hanging in the center of cords or
chains two feet long. Now, fasten one end of this cord at the top of
the center spoke C, and the other end of the cord to the next
right-hand spoke one foot below the upper end, or on the inner ring;
proceed in like manner with every other spoke in succession; and it
will be found that, at A, the cord will have the position shown
outside the wheel; while at B, C, and D, it will also take the
respective positions, as shown on the outside. The result in this
case will be, that all the weights on the side A, C, D, hang to the
great or outer circle, while on the side B, C, D, all the weights
are suspended from the lesser or inner circle. And if we reverse the
motion of the wheel, turning it from the right to the left hand, we
shall reverse these positions also (the lower end of the cord
sliding in a groove towards a left-hand spoke), but without the
wheel having any tendency to move of itself."
But it is quite as likely that the wheel constructed by the Marquis was
like one of the "overbalancing" wheels described at the beginning of
this article.
It is upon this "scantling" that has been based the claim that the
Marquis really invented a perpetual motion, but to those who have seen
much of inventors of this kind, the discrepancy between the suggested
claim made by the Marquis and what we know must have been the actual
results, is easily explained. The Marquis felt sure that the thing
_ought to work_, and the excuse for its not doing so was probably the
imperfect manner in which the wheel was made. Only put a little better
work on it, says the inventor, and it will go.
Caspar Kaltoff, mechanician to the Marquis, probably got the wheel up in
a hurry so as to exhibit it on the occasion of the king's visit to the
tower. If he only had had a little more time he would have made a
machine that would have worked. (?) I have heard the same excuse under
almost the same circumstances, scores of times.
The case of Orffyreus was very different. The real name of this
inventor was Jean Ernest Elie-Bessler, and he is said to have
manufactured the name Orffyreus by placing his own name between two
lines of letters, and picking out alternate letters above and below. He
was educated for the church, but turned his attention to mechanics and
became an expert clock maker. His character, as given by his
contemporaries was fickle, tricky, and irascible. Having devised a
scheme for perpetual motion he constructed several wheels which he
claimed to be self-moving. The last one which he made was 12 feet in
diameter and 14 inches deep, the material being light pine boards,
covered with waxed cloth to conceal the mechanism. The axle was 8 inches
thick, thus affording abundant space for concealed machinery.
This wheel was submitted to the Landgrave of Hesse who had it placed in
a room which was then locked, and the lock secured with the Landgrave's
own seal. At the end of forty days it was found to be still running.
Professor Gravesande having been employed by the Landgrave to make an
examination and pronounce upon its merits, he endeavored to perform his
work thoroughly; this so irritated Orffyreus that the latter broke the
machine in pieces, and left on the wall a writing stating that he had
been driven to do this by the impertinent curiosity of the Professor!
I have no doubt that this was a clear case of fraud, and that the wheel
was driven by some mechanism concealed in the huge axle. As already
stated, Orffyreus was at one time a clock maker; now clocks have been
made to go for a whole year without having to be rewound, so that forty
days was not a very long time for the apparatus to keep in motion.
Professor Gravesande seems to have had some faith in the invention, but
then we must remember that it would not have been very difficult to
deceive an honest old professor whose confidence in humanity was
probably unbounded. The crowning argument against the genuineness of the
motion was the fact that the inventor refused to allow a thorough
examination, although a wealthy patron stood ready with a large reward
if the machine could be proved to be what was claimed.
And now comes up the question which has arisen in regard to other
problems, and will recur again and again to the end of the chapter: Is a
perpetual motion machine one of the scientific impossibilities?
The answer to this question lies in the fact that there is no principle
more thoroughly established than that no combination of machinery can
create energy. So far as our present knowledge of nature goes we might
as well try to create matter as to create energy, and the creation of
energy is essential to the successful working of a perpetual-motion
machine because some power must always be lost through friction and
other resistances and must be supplied from some source if the machine
is to keep on moving. And since the law of the conservation of energy
makes it positive that no more power can be given out by a machine than
was originally supplied to it, it seems as certain as anything can be
that the construction of a perpetual-motion machine is one of the
impossibilities.
V
TRANSMUTATION OF THE METALS
The "accursed thirst for gold" has existed from the earliest ages and,
as the apostle says, "is the root of all evil." Those who have a greed
for power, a craving for luxury, or a fever for lust, all think that
their wildest dreams might be realized if they could only command
sufficient gold. Never was there a more lurid picture of a mind inflamed
with all these evil passions than that set forth by Ben Jonson in the
Second Act of "The Alchemist," and who can doubt but that such desires
and dreams spurred on many, either to engage in an actual search for the
philosopher's stone, or to become the dupes of what Van Helmont calls "a
diabolical crew of gold and silver sucking flies and leeches."
As we might naturally expect, the early history of alchemy is shrouded
in myths and fables. Zosimos the Panopolite tells us that the art of
Alchemy was first taught to mankind by demons, who fell in love with the
daughters of men, and, as a reward for their favors, taught them all the
works and mysteries of nature. On this Boerhaave remarks:
"This ancient fiction took its rise from a mistaken interpretation
of the words of Moses, 'That the sons of God saw the daughters of
men that they were fair, and they took them wives of all which they
chose.'[2] From whence it was inferred that the sons of God were
daemons, consisting of a soul, and a visible but impalpable body,
like the image in a looking-glass (to which notion we find several
allusions in the evangelists); that they know all things, appeared
to men and conversed with them, fell in love with women, had
intrigues with them and revealed secrets. From the same fable
probably arose that of the Sibyl, who is said to have obtained of
Apollo the gift of prophecy, and revealing the will of heaven in
return for a like favor. So prone is the roving mind of man to
figments, which it can at first idly amuse itself with, and at
length fall down and worship."
This idea of the supernatural origin of the arts permeates the ancient
mythology which everywhere teaches that men were taught the sacred arts
of medicine and chemistry by gods and demigods.
Modern science discards all these mythological accounts. Whatever
knowledge the ancients acquired of medicine and chemistry was, no doubt,
reached along two lines--pharmacy and metallurgy. That the pharmacist or
apothecary exercised his calling at a very early period we have positive
knowledge; thus in the Book of Ecclesiastes we are told that "dead flies
cause the ointment of the apothecary to send forth a stinking savor,"
and that men at a very early day found out the means of working iron,
copper, gold, silver, etc., is evident from the accounts given of Vulcan
and Tubalcain, as well as from the remains of old tools and weapons. And
that Alchemy, as it is generally understood, is a comparatively modern
outgrowth of these two arts, is pretty certain. No mention of the art of
converting the baser metals into gold, and no account of a universal
medicine or elixir of life is to be found in any of the authentic
writings of the ancients. Homer, Aristotle, and even Pliny are all
silent on the subject, and those writings which treat of the art, and
which claim an ancient origin, such as the books of Hermes Trismegistus,
are now regarded by the best authorities as spurious--the evidence that
they were the work of a far later age being irrefragable.
Several writers have taken the ground that the alchemical treatises
which have come down to us from the early writers on the subject, are
purely allegorical and do not relate to material things, but to the
principles of a higher religion which, in those days, it was dangerous
to expound in plain language. One or two elaborate works and several
articles supporting this view have been published, but the common-sense
reader who will glance through the immense collection of alchemical
tracts gathered together by Mangetus in two folio volumes of a thousand
pages each, will rise from such examination, very thoroughly convinced
that it was the actual metal gold, and the fabled universal medicine
that these writers had in view.
There can be little doubt that Geber, Roger Bacon, Albertus Magnus,
Raymond Lully, Helvetius, Van Helmont, Basil Valentine, and others,
describe very substantial things with a minuteness of detail which
leaves no room for doubt as to their materiality though we cannot always
be sure of their identity.
Some confusion of thought has been caused by the difference which has
been made between the terms alchemy and chemistry and their
applications. The word _alchemy_ is simply the word chemistry with the
Arabic word _al_, which signifies _the_, prefixed, and the history of
alchemy is really the history of chemistry--wild and erratic in its
beginnings, and giving rise to strange hopes and still stranger
theories, but ever working along the line of discovery and progress.
And, although many of the professional chemists or alchemists of the
middle ages were undoubted charlatans and quacks, yet did we not have
many of the same kind in the nineteenth century? We may use the word
alchemist as a term of reproach, and apply it to these early workers
because their theories appear to us to be absurd, but how do we know
that the chemists of the twenty-second century will not regard us in a
similar light, and set at naught the theories we so fondly cherish?
Only seven out of the large number of metals now catalogued by us were
known to the ancients; these were gold, silver, mercury, copper, tin,
lead, and iron. And as it happened that the list of so-called planets
also numbered exactly seven, it was thought that there must be a
connection between the two, and, consequently, in the alchemical
writings, each metal was called by the name of that one of the heavenly
bodies which was supposed to be connected with it in influence and
quality.
In the astronomy of the ancients, as is generally known, the earth
occupied the center of the universe, and the list of planets included
the sun and moon. After them came Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, and
Saturn. To the metal gold was given the name of Sol, or the sun, on
account of its brightness and its power of resisting corroding agents;
hence the compounds of gold were known as solar compounds and solar
medicines. As might have been expected, silver was assigned to Luna or
the moon, and in the modern pharmacop[oe]ia such terms as lunar caustic
and lunar salts still have a place. Mercury was, of course, appropriated
to the planet of that name. Copper was named after Venus, and cupreous
salts were known as venereal salts. Iron, probably from its being the
metal chiefly used for making arms and armor, was dedicated to Mars, and
we still speak of martial salts. Tin was named after Jupiter from his
brilliancy, the compounds of tin being called jovial salts. The dull,
leaden color of Saturn, with his apparently heavy and slow motion,
seemed to fit him for association with lead, and we still have the
saturnine ointment as a reminder of old alchemical times.
Of these metals gold was supposed to be the only one that was perfect,
and the belief was general that if the others could be purified and
perfected they would be changed to gold. Many of the old chemists worked
faithfully and honestly to accomplish this, but the path to wealth
seemed so direct and the means for deception were so ready and simple,
that large numbers of quacks and charlatans entered the field and held
out the most alluring inducements to dupes who furnished them liberally
with money and other necessaries in the hope that when the discovery was
made they would be put in possession of unbounded wealth. These dupes
were easily deceived and led astray by simple frauds, which scarcely
rose to the level of amateur legerdemain. In the "Memoirs of the Academy
of Sciences" for 1772, M. Geoffroy gives an account of the various modes
in which the frauds of these swindlers were carried on. The following
are a few of their tricks: Instead of the mineral substances which they
pretended to transmute they put a salt of gold or silver at the bottom
of the crucible, the mixture being covered with some powdered crucible
and gum water or wax so that it might look like the bottom of the
crucible. Another method was to bore a hole in a piece of charcoal, fill
the hole with fine filings of gold or silver, stopping it with powered
charcoal, mixed with some agglutinant so that the whole might look
natural. Then when the charcoal burned away, the silver or gold was
found in the bottom of the crucible. Or they soaked charcoal in a
solution of these metals and threw the charcoal, when powdered, upon the
material to be transmuted. Sometimes they whitened gold with mercury and
made it pass for silver or tin, and the gold when melted was exhibited
as the result of transmutation. A common exhibition was to dip nails in
a liquid and to take them out apparently half converted into gold; these
nails consisted of one-half iron neatly soldered to the other half,
which was gold, and covered with something to conceal the color. The
paint or covering was removed by the liquid. A very common trick was the
use of a hollow, iron stirring rod; the hollow was filled with gold or
silver filings, and neatly stopped with wax. When used to stir the
contents of the crucible the wax melted and allowed the gold or silver
to fall out.
These frauds were rendered all the more easy because of certain
statements which were current in regard to successful attempts to
convert lead and other metals into gold. These accounts were vouched for
by well-known chemists and others of high standing. Perhaps the most
famous of these is that given by Helvetius in his "Brief of the Golden
Calf; Discovering the Rarest Miracle in Nature; how by the smallest
portion of the Philosopher's Stone, a great piece of common lead was
totally transmuted into the purest transplendent gold, at the Hague in
1666." The following is Brande's abridgment of this singular account.
"The 27th day of December, 1666, in the afternoon, came a stranger
to my house at the Hague, in a plebeick habit, of honest gravity and
serious authority, of a mean stature and a little long face, black
hair not at all curled, a beardless chin, and about forty-four years
(as I guess) of age and born in North Holland. After salutation, he
beseeched me with great reverence to pardon his rude accesses, for
he was a lover of the Pyrotechnian art, and having read my treatise
against the sympathetic powder of Sir Kenelm Digby, and observed my
doubt about the philosophic mystery, induced him to ask me if I
really was a disbeliever as to the existence of an universal
medicine which would cure all diseases, unless the principal parts
were perished, or the predestinated time of death come. I replied, I
never met with an adept, or saw such a medicine, though I had
fervently prayed for it. Then I said, 'Surely you are a learned
physician.' 'No,' said he, 'I am a brass-founder, and a lover of
chemistry.' He then took from his bosom-pouch a neat ivory box, and
out of it three ponderous lumps of stone, each about the bigness of
a walnut. I greedily saw and handled for a quarter of an hour this
most noble substance, the value of which might be somewhere about
twenty tons of gold; and having drawn from the owner many rare
secrets of its admirable effects, I returned him this treasure of
treasures with a most sorrowful mind, humbly beseeching him to
bestow a fragment of it upon me in perpetual memory of him, though
but the size of a coriander seed. 'No, no,' said he, 'that is not
lawful, though thou wouldest give me as many golden ducats as would
fill this room; for it would have particular consequences, and if
fire could be burned of fire, I would at this instant rather cast it
all into the fiercest flames.' He then asked if I had a private
chamber whose prospect was from the public street; so I presently
conducted him to my best furnished room backwards, which he entered,
says Helvetius (in the true spirit of Dutch cleanliness), without
wiping his shoes, which were full of snow and dirt. I now expected
he would bestow some great secret upon me; but in vain. He asked for
a piece of gold, and opening his doublet showed me five pieces of
that precious metal which he wore upon a green riband, and which
very much excelled mine in flexibility and color, each being the
size of a small trencher. I now earnestly again craved a crumb of
the stone, and at last, out of his philosophical commiseration, he
gave me a morsel as large as a rapeseed; but I said, 'This scanty
portion will scarcely transmute four grains of lead.' 'Then,' said
he, 'Deliver it me back:' which I did, in hopes of a greater parcel;
but he, cutting off half with his nail, said: 'Even this is
sufficient for thee.' 'Sir,' said I, with a dejected countenance,
'what means this?' And he said, 'Even that will transmute half an
ounce of lead.' So I gave him great thanks, and said I would try it,
and reveal it to no one. He then took his leave, and said he would
call again next morning at nine. I then confessed, that while the
mass of his medicine was in my hand the day before, I had secretly
scraped off a bit with my nail, which I projected on lead, but it
caused no transmutation, for the whole flew away in fumes. 'Friend,'
said he, 'thou art more dexterous in committing theft than in
applying medicine; hadst thou wrapt up thy stolen prey in yellow
wax, it would have penetrated and transmuted the lead into gold.' I
then asked if the philosophic work cost much or required long time,
for philosophers say that nine or ten months are required for it. He
answered, 'Their writings are only to be understood by the adepts,
without whom no student can prepare this magistery. Fling not away,
therefore, thy money and goods in hunting out this art, for thou
shalt never find it.' To which I replied, 'As thy master showed it
thee so mayest thou perchance discover something thereof to me who
know the rudiments, and therefore, it may be easier to add to a
foundation than begin anew.' 'In this art,' said he, 'it is quite
otherwise, for unless thou knowest the thing from head to heel, thou
canst not break open the glassy seal of Hermes. But enough; tomorrow
at the ninth hour I will show thee the manner of projection.' But
Elias never came again; so my wife, who was curious in the art
whereof the worthy man had discoursed, teazed me to make the
experiment with the little spark of bounty the artist had left me;
so I melted half an ounce of lead, upon which my wife put in the
said medicine; it hissed and bubbled, and in a quarter of an hour
the mass of lead was transmuted into fine gold, at which we were
exceedingly amazed. I took it to the goldsmith, who judged it most
excellent, and willingly offered fifty florins for each ounce."
Such is the celebrated history of Elias the artist and Dr. Helvetius.
Helvetius stood very high as a man and chemist, but in connection with
this and some other narratives of the same kind, it may be well to
remember that something over a hundred years before that time the
celebrated Paracelsus had introduced laudanum.
The following is another history of transmutation, given by Mangetus, on
the authority of M. Gros, a clergyman of Geneva, "of the most
unexceptionable character, and at the same time a skilful physician and
expert chemist."