Posts Tagged ‘alchemy’
“Alchemy. The link between the immemorial magic arts and modern science. Humankind’s first systematic effort to unlock the secrets of matter by reproducible experiment.”*…
As (AI/tech pro and writer) Dale Markowitz explains, for scientists of yore anything—from mermaids to alchemy—was on the table…
In 1936, the economist John Maynard Keynes purchased a trove of Isaac Newton’s unpublished notes. These included more than 100,000 words on the great physicist’s secret alchemical experiments. Keynes, shocked and awed, dubbed them “wholly magical and wholly devoid of scientific value.” This unexpected discovery, paired with things like Newton’s obsession with searching for encrypted messages in the Bible’s Book of David, showed that Newton “was not the first of the age of reason,” Keynes concluded. “He was the last of the magicians.”
When it came to fascination with the occult, Newton was hardly alone. Many contemporary scientists may cast aspersions on spells, mythical tales, and powers of divination. Not so for many of the early modern thinkers who laid the foundations of modern science. To them, the world teemed with the uncanny: witches, unicorns, mermaids, stars that foretold the future, base metals that could be coaxed into gold or distilled into elixirs of eternal life.
These fantastical beliefs were shared by the illiterate and educated elite alike—including many of the forebears of contemporary science, including chemist Robert Boyle, who gave us modern chemistry and Boyle’s law, and biologist Carl Linnaeus, who developed the taxonomic system by which scientists classify species today. Rather than stifling discovery, their now-arcane beliefs may have helped drive them and other scientists to endure hot smoky days in the bowels of alchemical laboratories or long frigid nights on the balconies of astronomical towers.
To understand the role of magic in spurring scientific progress, it helps to understand the state of learning in Europe in those times. Throughout the Middle Ages, many scholars were fixated on the idea that knowledge could only be gleaned from ancient texts. Universities taught from incomplete, often poorly translated copies of Aristotle, Ptolemy, and Galen. To stray from the giants was a crime: In 14th-century Oxford, scholars could be charged 5 shillings for contradicting Aristotle. Curiosity was considered a sin on par with lust. A powerful motivator was needed to shuck off ancient thinking.
One of the first influential thinkers to break with the old ways was the 16th-century Swiss-German physician Paracelsus. The father of toxicology, known for his pioneering use of chemicals in medicine, Paracelsus was among the first of his time to champion the importance of experimentation and observation—a philosophy which would set the foundations for the scientific method. Paracelsus showed the scholars what he thought of their old books by publicly burning his copies of Galen and Avicenna.
But what led him to this experiment-first approach? Perhaps it was because, to Paracelsus, experimentation was a kind of magic. His writing fuses scientific observation with the occult. To him, medicine, astrology, and alchemy were inextricably linked—different ways of unveiling sacred truths hidden in nature by God. Paracelsus considered himself a kind of magus, as he believed Moses and Solomon had been, as Newton would view himself 150 years later. Paracelsus believed, though, that divine knowledge could be gained not just by studying scripture, but also by studying nature. The alchemical workbench, the night sky—these were even surer routes to God than any dusty old textbook…
[Markowitz recounts the stories of Tycho Brahe [almanac entry here], his patron Holy Roman Emperor Rudolf II, Robert Boyle, William Harvey, and Linnaeus [here], who, in 1749, urged the Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences to launch a hunt for mermaids…]
… To our contemporary ears, most all of this may sound fairly ridiculous. But as Edward Donlick puts it in The Clockwork Universe, “The world was so full of marvels, in other words, that the truly scientific approach was to reserve judgment about what was possible and what wasn’t, and to observe and experiment instead.” To the 17th-century scientist, anything was on the table, so long as it could be experimentally studied.
Today, we know how the story ends: Belief in astrology, alchemy, and witchcraft declined in places where empiricism and skepticism became cornerstones of science. But perhaps early scientists’ fascination with the occult should remind us of other tenants of discovery: open-mindedness and curiosity. Witches, mermaids, and the philosopher’s stone may not have survived modern scrutiny, but it was curiosity about them that drove real progress and allowed early thinkers to stray from established norms. In this sense, curiosity is a kind of magic…
“How the Occult Gave Birth to Science,” from @dalequark.bsky.social in @nautil.us.
See also: “The importance of experimental proof, on the other hand, does not mean that without new experimental data we cannot make advances” and “Everyone knows Newton as the great scientist. Few remember that he spent half his life muddling with alchemy, looking for the philosopher’s stone. That was the pebble by the seashore he really wanted to find.”
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As we think about transmutation, we might spare a thought for a rough contemporary (and fellow-traveler) of Newton’s, Rasmus Bartholin; he died on this date in 1698. A physician, mathematician, and physicist, he is best known for his discovery of the optical phenomenon of double refraction. In 1669, Bartholin observed that images seen through Icelandic feldspar (calcite) were doubled and that, when the crystal was rotated, one image remained stationary while the other rotated with the crystal. Such behaviour of light could not be explained using Newton’s optical theories of the time. Subsequently, this was explained as the effect of the polarisation of the light.
Bartholin also wrote a several mathematical works and made astronomical observations (including the comets of 1665). And he is famed for his medical work, in particular his introduction of quinine in the fight against malaria.
(Bartholin’s family was packed with pioneering scientists, 12 of whom became professors at the University of Copenhagen; perhaps most notable, his elder brother Thomas, who discovered the lymphatic system in humans and advanced the theory of “refrigeration anesthesia”(being the first to describe it scientifically).
“If you would be a real seeker after truth, it is necessary that at least once in your life you doubt, as far as possible, all things.”*…
René Descartes, the founder of modern philosophy, was furiously condemned by his contemporaries. Why did they fear him? Sandrine Parageau explains…
The French philosopher René Descartes (1596-1650) is generally presented as one of the founders of modern Western philosophy and science, the man who made reason the principle of the search for truth, and who formulated the cogito, ‘I think, therefore I am.’ His assertion of mind-body dualism has given rise to a great number of objections over time, from those of 17th-century theologians to those of 20th-century feminists. In France, even though the decision of the 1792-95 National Convention to transfer Descartes’s remains to the Pantheon in Paris was not followed through, the philosopher is nonetheless regarded as ‘un grand homme’, a national hero, and being labelled ‘Cartesian’ is still today a compliment that emphasises one’s common sense, good judgment and methodical use of reason.
Yet Descartes was not always the undisputed champion of reason that he is today. In 17th-century England and the Netherlands, he was publicly and repeatedly accused of being a fraud and of lying to his readers so as to manipulate them into becoming his disciples. Of course, as one would expect, many intellectual and scientific objections were raised by his contemporaries against Descartes’s philosophy. But those ad hominem allegations were of a different nature altogether: they implied that the French philosopher resorted to well-crafted and dishonest strategies to make his readers ignorant, and therefore gullible, with the aim of making them submit to his control. Thus, according to those critics, the founder of modern science was, in truth, a purveyor of ignorance.
Such an accusation was made for example by the Protestant scholar and theologian Meric Casaubon (1599-1671 [a classicist and the first translators of the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius into English]), a Geneva-born clergyman of the Church of England, in a long manuscript letter on ‘general learning’ written in 1668, in which he deplores what he perceives as the growing ignorance of his contemporaries. In this text, Casaubon accuses Descartes of deliberately encouraging his readers to make themselves ignorant by urging them to renounce their beliefs and forget all the knowledge that they have previously acquired: ‘a man must first strip himself of all that he has ever known, or believed.’
This accusation against the champion of rationalism may seem paradoxical at first, but it should not come as a complete surprise: if Descartes did not praise ignorance as such, and certainly not as an end in itself, he did encourage his readers to get rid of all their previous opinions, prejudices and false knowledge, as he himself had done after realising the uncertainty of the knowledge he had been taught as a child. Indeed, in the Discourse on Method (1637), Descartes relates how he initially loved philosophy, theology, poetry and mathematics, which he had been taught at the prestigious Collège Royal de La Flèche, before he became aware of the variety of opinions and the pervasiveness of error, which made him doubt all his knowledge and beliefs. In the Meditations (1641), a few years after the Discourse, Descartes further explains that, in the face of such doubt and uncertainty, he decided to get rid of all the opinions he had formed or acquired in order to rebuild science and knowledge on a firm basis. This experience of ‘radical’ or ‘hyperbolical’ doubt, as it has later been called, which results in the rejection of all knowledge, implying a form of self-induced ignorance, was unsurprisingly construed as an extreme stance by 17th-century commentators, and we may understand how it could be interpreted as a promotion of complete ignorance…
[Parageau unpacks Casaubon’s critique…]
… The 17th-century manipulation techniques here described by Casaubon are strikingly similar to what we now call ‘gaslighting’, a form of emotional and psychological abuse that leads the victim to question their own cognitive faculties and sometimes even their very sanity. As a matter of fact, the Dutch scholar and theologian Martin Schoock (1614-1669), Descartes’s contemporary, had, even more clearly than Casaubon and 25 years earlier, accused Descartes’s ‘new philosophy’ of leading to mental disorder, because choosing ignorance, according to Schoock in his Admirable Method (1643), amounts to deliberately putting off the light of reason in one’s mind: ‘A grown man who forgets everything is ignorant of everything, and where there is ignorance of everything, there is mental disorder.’ (My translation.)
As this passage makes clear, Schoock also thought that Descartes’s radical doubt could not but result in complete ignorance – Descartes’s philosophy was therefore a mere tool devised to spread ignorance. This call for radical doubt, as Schoock understood it, was based on the Cartesian idea that certain and evident truth can come only from within oneself. The French philosopher had allegedly ‘waged a war on books and reading’ and encouraged laziness, especially among young people, who were invited to spend all day lying down and ‘meditating’, in other words doing nothing. Descartes’s victims, Schoock adds, were primarily less-educated or naive people, who fell more readily for his deceptive arguments as they were dazzled by his reputation and influence. Indeed, the example of Descartes’s alleged use of ignorance also reveals the insidious domination of the intellectual elite over less-educated people. Thus, for Schoock as for Casaubon, the aim of Descartes’s so-called philosophy was to turn ignorant people into disciples and ensure their obedience.
If we are to believe Casaubon and Schoock, Descartes’s alleged manipulation was fairly successful, and a great number of people joined ‘the Cartesian sect’. So how come Descartes could so easily dupe his contemporaries? One answer might be that his deception did not rely on lying, but on the more strategic use and abuse of doubt. Doubt is indeed more subtle than crude lies, and therefore more efficient, provided the audience who is being manipulated is not entirely ignorant at first (otherwise, lies would work just as well), yet not educated or sagacious enough to be able to detect and expose the deception straight away. The efficiency of doubt as a strategy may also reside in its versatility. Doubt is indeed both an epistemic virtue, or the first step on the path to truth (the philosopher is always initially a doubter, someone who questions what they have been taught or what seems self-evident), and an epistemic vice, as it can lead to destabilisation and even dissolution of truth and knowledge altogether when it is excessive or misplaced…
… The condemnation of Descartes by Casaubon and Schoock should also be seen as the manifestation of a desperate effort to resist change in the intellectual context that led to the emergence of modern science. The conservative Casaubon feared and lamented the coming destruction of traditional knowledge, which he believed was brought forth by an undue insistence on method to the detriment of learning itself. One must admit that Cartesianism is indeed obsessed with method – Descartes’s famous Discourse is evidence enough. Moreover, Descartes’s call for the rejection by each individual of all their knowledge and opinions was not only interpreted as a means to get power over those who would make themselves ignorant, but also as the programmed extinction of established knowledge, which would give way to something new and therefore suspicious. Schoock shared those preoccupations but was probably even more worried about the psychological consequences of Descartes’s philosophy on his followers and the larger public if ever it managed to spread, which he seriously feared because the mere ‘novelty’ of this philosophy made it attractive to the ignorant multitude. Surprising as it may seem, Schoock’s fears about the sanity of Cartesians were not entirely unjustified. Indeed, if the allegation that Descartes deliberately produced ignorance to control people can be easily dismissed, the claim that his philosophy was likely to lead to madness is more convincing.
Most specialists of Descartes’s philosophy have ignored the affective experience described in the Discourse and the Meditations to focus instead on the order of reason in those texts. Radical doubt and the cogito have thus been interpreted as literary and rhetorical devices, or mere fables (the word is used by Descartes himself in the Discourse). They are generally seen as fictions or thought experiments, rather than as a cognitive process that Descartes actually experienced. If the autobiographical and emotional dimension of self-induced ignorance has been neglected so far, it might be because this aspect does not match the overarching interpretation of Cartesianism as the rule of reason. Descartes urged people to reject all their opinions and knowledge only as a temporary precondition to accessing truth, not as a permanent state. But still, he did encourage self-induced ignorance.
The epistemic anxiety that followed was described by Casaubon and Schoock, as mentioned above. But the origin of the search for truth is emotionally charged as well, as it is grounded in disillusionment and existential despair following the discovery that one was taught erroneous opinions as a child and was therefore deceived. This painful discovery gives rise to the need for purification through the rejection of one’s opinions and withdrawal from the world. The emotional impact of the search for truth is attested in Adrien Baillet’s late 17th-century biography of Descartes, which precisely describes Descartes’s physical and psychological distress.
As Tristan Dagron argues in his book Pensée et cliniques de l’identité (2019), or ‘Thoughts and Treatments of Identity’, the experience that Descartes relates in the First Meditation, where he describes the need for the purification of his mind, can be interpreted as a reappropriation of three dreams that he had in November 1619, which left him confused and mentally disturbed as he was confronted with radical doubt about the distinction between dreaming and waking. When he narrates those dreams, Baillet talks of Descartes’s violent agitations, exhaustion, despair and ‘enthusiasm’, some form of divine inspiration and madness (hence also Descartes’s association with religious sects by his opponents). Dagron shows that those dreams were a traumatic experience for Descartes, which is echoed in the First Meditation and its presentation of radical doubt.
The emotionally unsettling confrontation with radical doubt and madness should be acknowledged as the starting point of the search for truth in what is commonly hailed today as a radically rationalist, emotion-free system of thought – perhaps a consequence of Michel Foucault’s influential reading of the Meditations as a violent and successful attempt at muzzling madness, or a ‘coup de force’, in his book Madness and Civilization (1961). Thus, Casaubon and Schoock were right in arguing that radical doubt implied epistemic anxiety and madness, but madness is not rejected by Descartes – on the contrary, it is embraced and then healed, so to speak, by his philosophy. This might actually be the true reason why Descartes is indeed the founder of modern Western science and philosophy…
“The French Liar,” from @sparageau.bsky.social in @aeon.co.
* René Descartes
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As marshall our marbles, we might send magical birthday greetings to John Dee, the mathematician, astronomer, and geographer who was a consultant to Elizabeth I– and who was born on this date in 1527. Dee was a translator of Euclid, and a friend of both Gerardus Mercator and Tycho Brahe; he revolutionized navigation by applying geometry; and he coined the word “Brittannia” and the phrase “British Empire.” He had a tremendous impact on architecture and theater– and was the model for Shakespeare’s Prospero.
“So how come such a significant philosopher– one of very few in a country then considered an intellectual backwater– barely features in British history books? Because of his notorious links with magic” (observed BBC’s Discover). Dee was indeed involved (most heavily, toward the end of his life) in the Hermetic Arts: alchemy, astrology, divination, Hermetic philosophy and Rosicrucianism (the Protestant answer to the Jesuits, which Dee founded). Perhaps most (in)famously, Dee put a hex on the Spanish Armada, a spell widely credited at the time for the misfortunes that befell the Iberian fleet (which readers may recall).
In a way that presaged Isaac Newton, Dee’s work spanned the world’s of science and magic at just the point that those world’s began to separate.
“Good night, sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite”*…
As Rodrigo Pérez Ortega reports, that admonition has a very long history…
Long before rats roamed sewers and cockroaches lurked in kitchen corners, another unwelcome guest plagued early civilizations. A new genomic study published today in Biology Letters suggests that bedbugs—the blood-feeding insects that haunt our hotel stays—were the first urban pests, proving an itchy menace for tens of thousands of years.
“This is really amazing,” says Klaus Reinhardt, an evolutionary biologist at the Dresden University of Technology who was not involved in the new study. “I think the hypothesis is quite solid.” Still, other researchers quibble over whether bedbugs can indisputably claim that title.
Many species of bedbugs depend on us—and our blood—to survive, but long ago, their prey of choice was probably exclusively bats. Genetic evidence suggests that about 245,000 years ago, some bedbugs made the jump to early humans.
This split led to two genetically distinct bedbug lineages. One kept feeding on bats and today remains largely confined to caves and natural habitats in Europe and the Middle East. The other followed humans into modern dwellings. Exactly how that scenario played out remained a mystery, however. That’s why Warren Booth, an evolutionary biologist at the Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University, and his team set out to study the genome of the common bedbug (Cimex lectularius) in depth…
… [Their findings make] bedbugs strong contenders for the title of the world’s first true urban pest that relies solely on humans, the researchers claim. Unlike more recent urban interlopers that feast on our stored food and enjoy our cozy homes—like the German cockroach (Blattella germanica), which formed a close association with humans just 2000 years ago, or the black rat (Rattus rattus), whose commensal relationship began about 5000 years ago—bedbugs may have started parasitizing humans just as our ancestors started building permanent settlements…
… the new findings underscore how humans have shaped the evolution of urban insects. Compared with their bat-feeding cousins, human-feeding bedbugs are smaller, less hairy, and have larger limbs—adaptations likely suited to navigating smooth walls and synthetic bedding. Today’s bedbugs also carry many DNA mutations linked to insecticide resistance, a relatively recent trait that reflects the pressures of modern pest control. “They’re a remarkable yet horrible species,” Booth says.
Understanding how these pests evolved together with us could help improve strategies for controlling them, especially as cities continue to grow—and as bedbugs now feed on the poultry we raise. Further research could also help us understand how our own immune system evolved, since some people develop allergies for bedbug bites. As a start, Booth and his team are analyzing centuries-old bedbug specimens in museums, to track how the insects’ genomes—and populations—have evolved over the past century alongside us.
“There’s a pretty intimate association, whether we like it or not,” Booth says. “That’s not going away anytime soon.”…
“Bedbugs may be the first urban pest,” from @rpocisv.bsky.social in @science.org.
* common children’s rhyme
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As we contemplate the chronicle of a co-evolved curse, we might recall that it was on thus date in 1789 that Richard Kirwan published his essay in support of the phlogiston theory (the belief, that dates to alchemical times, in the existence of a fire-like element (dubbed “phlogiston”) contained within combustible bodies and released during burning. Kirwan was among the last of its advocates.
A well-regarded scientist in the late 18th and early 19th centuries, Kirwan met and corresponded with Black, Lavoisier, Priestley, and Cavendish. Indeed, while scientific history remembers him as a defender of an incorrect theory, his work probably spurred Priestley and Lavoisier, who respectively discovered and named the actual elemental agent of combustion, oxygen.
But Kirwan is also remembered for a personal eccentricity (one of many) relevant to this post: he hated bugs (especially flies). He paid his servant a bounty for each one they killed.
“Truth is ever to be found in the simplicity, and not in the multiplicity and confusion of things”*…
From Kim (Scott) Morrison‘s and Dror Bar-Natan‘s, The Knot Atlas, “a complete user-editable knot atlas, in the wiki spirit of Wikipedia“– a marvelous example of a wide-spread urge in mathematics to find order through classification. As Joseph Howlett explains, that quest continues, even as it proves vexatious…
Biology in the 18th century was all about taxonomy. The staggering diversity of life made it hard to draw conclusions about how it came to be. Scientists first had to put things in their proper order, grouping species according to shared characteristics — no easy task. Since then, they’ve used these grand catalogs to understand the differences among organisms and to infer their evolutionary histories. Chemists built the periodic table for the same purpose — to classify the elements and understand their behaviors. And physicists made the Standard Model to explain how the fundamental particles of the universe interact.
In his book The Order of Things, the philosopher Michel Foucault describes this preoccupation with sorting as a formative step for the sciences. “A knowledge of empirical individuals,” he wrote, “can be acquired only from the continuous, ordered and universal tabulation of all possible differences.”
Mathematicians never got past this obsession. That’s because the menagerie of mathematics makes the biological catalog look like a petting zoo. Its inhabitants aren’t limited by physical reality. Any conceivable possibility, whether it lives in our universe or in some hypothetical 200-dimensional one, needs to be accounted for. There are tons of different classifications to try — groups, knots, manifolds and so on — and infinitely many objects to sort in each of those classifications. Classification is how mathematicians come to know the strange, abstract world they’re studying, and how they prove major theorems about it.Take groups, a central object of study in math. The classification of “finite simple groups” — the building blocks of all groups — was one of the grandest mathematical accomplishments of the 20th century. It took dozens of mathematicians nearly 100 years to finish. In the end, they figured out that all finite simple groups fall into three buckets, except for 26 itemized outliers. A dedicated crew of mathematicians has been working on a “condensed” proof of the classification since 1994 — it currently comprises 10 volumes and several thousand pages, and still isn’t finished. But the gargantuan undertaking continues to bear fruit, recently helping to prove a decades-old conjecture that you can infer a lot about a group by examining one small part of it.
Mathematics, unfettered by the typical constraints of reality, is all about possibility. Classification gives mathematicians a way to start exploring that limitless potential…[Howlett reviews attempts to classify numbers by “type” (postive/negative, rational/irrational), and mathematical objects by “equivalency” (shapes that can be stretched or squeezed into the other without breaking or tearing, like a doughnut and and coffee cup (see here)…]
… Similarly, classification has played an important role in knot theory. Tie a knot in a piece of string, then glue the string’s ends together — that’s a mathematical knot. Knots are equivalent if one can be tangled or untangled, without cutting the string, to match the other. This mundane-sounding task has lots of mathematical uses. In 2023, five mathematicians made progress on a key conjecture in knot theory that stated that all knots with a certain property (being “slice”) must also have another (being “ribbon”), with the proof ruling out a suspected counterexample. (As an aside, I’ve often wondered why knot theorists insist on using nouns as adjectives.)
Classifications can also get more meta. Both theoretical computer scientists and mathematicians classify problems about classification based on how “hard” they are.
All these classifications turn math’s disarrayed infinitude into accessible order. It’s a first step toward reining in the deluge that pours forth from mathematical imaginings…
“The Never-Ending Struggle to Classify All Math,” from @quantamagazine.bsky.social.
* Isaac Newton
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As we sort, we might spare a thought for the author of our title quote, Sir Isaac Newton; he died in this date in 1727. A polymath, Newton excelled in– and advanced– mathematics, physics, and astronomy; he was a theologian and a government offical (Master of the Mint)… and a dedicated alchemist. He was key to the Scientific Revolution and the Enlightenment that followed.
Newton’s book Philosophiæ Naturalis Principia Mathematica (Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy), first published in 1687, achieved the first great unification in physics and established classical mechanics (e.g., the Laws of Motion and the principle of universal gravitation). He also made seminal contributions to optics, and shares credit with German mathematician Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz for formulating infinitesimal calculus. Indeed, Newton contributed to and refined the scientific method to such an extent that his work is considered the most influential in the development of modern science.
“You are an alchemist; make gold of that”*…
From Hugh Aldersey-Williams and Public Domain Review, a macabre morality tale for mid-May…
The man in the oval frame here is Georg Honauer. On the left, we see his unusual execution. A Latinized inscription gives his pretended noble alias, Lord of Brunhoff and Grobeschütz, along with the year 1597 and his age: twenty-four years old. Honauer is richly dressed in an embroidered tunic and is wearing an extravagant plumed hat. Two little devils repose on cushions beneath him.
Spectators cluster round the elaborate gallows. The tall iron construction, complete with finial balls and dangling chains, stands on a specially cut stone plinth. In a gory detail, blood drips down from the hanging figure. There is reason both for the fancy dress and the fancy construction.
Honauer was born in Olomouc, Moravia (now in the Czech Republic), in 1572. Passing himself off under his alias as a goldsmith and alchemist, in 1596 he entered the service of Friedrich I, Duke of Württemberg, in Stuttgart, claiming to be able to convert iron into precious metal using a process that combined alchemical transmutation with the bulk techniques of metal ore smelting.
Most ancient cultures with metallurgy have a version of alchemy, from the Chinese to the Egyptians. Alchemy flourished in medieval Europe, with its promise of divinely assisted immortality and its alluring sub-discipline, chrysopoeia, the transmutation of base metal into gold. It came with its own compelling logic that metals in the earth exist naturally in a constant state of evolution toward gold. Ores were near the start of the journey; easily smelted base metals such as lead a little further along. Alchemists believed that with the right chemical agents they could accelerate the process. But others doubted these claims, and during the centuries when some were pursuing alchemy in all seriousness, others — from Chaucer and Dante to Pieter Bruegel the Elder and Ben Jonson — made it a topic of derision and satire.
Alchemists nevertheless found patrons among men in urgent need of money, and the duke was certainly one of these. Before the end of the decade, Friedrich would raise the cash to persuade Rudolf II, the Holy Roman Emperor and Archduke of Austria, to release his duchy from Austrian control, and was pursuing expensive utopian projects, such as building the new city of Freudenstadt as a Protestant refuge.
So Honauer’s arrival in Stuttgart was well timed. Friedrich was already offering a reward to subjects who discovered promising ore deposits. Honauer claimed he could produce eight hundred ducats’ worth of “fine gold” from a hundred pounds of iron, and a friend said he had seen him using a tincture to draw gold from a lead bullet at a military camp in Hungary. The duke demanded a small-scale demonstration, which Honauer duly performed, and the metallic product passed an assay by the duke’s mining adviser; it was “at least as good as ducat-quality gold.”
Driven by fascination with the subject of alchemy as well as his avarice, Friedrich immediately directed that his Stuttgart summerhouse be converted into a laboratory for Honauer, and granted him further facilities at Kirchheim unter Teck, a short ride away from the city. He placed a large initial order for 200,000 ducats of gold, but Honauer said he did not have a sufficient quantity of the reagents necessary for such a large undertaking. They agreed on a monthly target of 36,000 ducats, to run indefinitely. The duke then arranged for thirty-six hundredweight and eighteen pounds (nearly two tons) of iron to be transported more than 150 miles from his armoury in Mömpelgard (now Montbéliard in France) to provide Honauer with the “raw material” he needed. Honauer’s order for additional chemicals necessary for the operation was equally impressive: 1030 pounds of saltpetre, 1852 pounds of lead, as well as similar quantities of “white copper” (cupronickel) and “mountain antimony”, and other reagents.
However, when he finally saw the scale of the task before him, Honauer lost his nerve and fled the city. Keen to get him back, believing that he had seen transmutation with his own eyes, the duke had his court painter produce “wanted posters” for the vanished alchemist, who was soon apprehended and brought back to attempt the transmutation again. When this failed, Friedrich had Honauer interrogated. Although the duke clearly wanted to believe Honauer could do as he had claimed, the fact that the alchemist had run away could only add to suspicions he was a cheat — a Betrüger, to use a word adopted at this time specifically to categorize alchemists who had been found unsuccessful, and who might or might not have been deliberately fraudulent.
The trial that followed was complicated by the fact that Honauer was indicted for impersonating a member of the nobility as well as the alchemical Betrug. He was quickly found guilty and, despite a personal appeal to the Holy Roman Emperor, sentenced to hang in a unique public spectacle. On Friedrich’s orders, all the iron that Honauer had been unable to convert into precious metal was converted instead into his gallows. The thirty-foot structure was then gilded in mockery of his claimed abilities and, on April 2, 1597, Honauer was dressed in robes woven with gold brocade to humiliate him still further, and led out to his death…
“The Gilded Gallows of Georg Honauer,” from @HoooAW in @PublicDomainRev.
* Shakespeare, Timon of Athens (Act 5, Scene 1)
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As we tackle transmutation, we might note that today is the luckiest day of the year… or so suggests the alchemist’s cousin, the astrologer:
On May 18 at 2:36 p.m. EST, we will experience a once-a-year Jupiter cazimi.
Cazimi comes from the Arabic word kaṣmīmī, meaning “as if in the heart.” In astrological terms, a cazimi transpires when a planet is in close or exact conjunction with the sun, right in the infernal heart of it, if you will.
Also known as the “Day of Miracles,” a Jupiter cazimi occurs when the planet of good times, good luck, deep pockets, limitless potential, laughter, wisdom and diamonds on the soles of its proverbial shoes, is within one degree of the sun. A cazimi is something of a solar amplifier/purifier, where the inherent energy of a planet is hyped and heightened by its proximity to that show-boating death star.
On Saturday, the planet of growth, optimism, and abundance is getting a solar tongue kiss at 28 degrees and and we’re all primed to reap the benefits…
… It’s anyone’s guess what an unlucky ruler might do to punish an over-promising astrologer.
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