with the ardour of their own swift energy,
and they set on fire whatever they touched.
They inspired with a living force every branch
of learning, and this knowledge they carried
with them and spread abroad in every country
whithersoever they went. The good they did
to mankind—not by their genius only, but by
the industry with which they worked out the
results of learning, and the intense vitality
which fertilised their industry—amply atoned
for the loss sustained by the destruction of
the great library. Chemistry was the science
into which they threw themselves with the
greatest ardour, and is the one in which we
can best judge of what they effected. Many
words of their invention retain their place in
our present nomenclature—such are, alchemy
itself, alkali, alcohol, alembic, algaroth,
alembroth, and others. They brought into
mechanical operation many natural processes;
—such as distillation, sublimation, filtration,
crystallisation. They invented the retort,
the alembic, the crucible, the water-bath, and
the sand-bath. The Arabians did something
greater than all these things—they changed
the whole method of conducting scientific
enquiry; the ancient mode was to reason
from abstract principles, which, in matters of
fact, was like beginning to build a house from
the roof downwards. The Arabians set to
work by observing facts and making
experiments, thus endeavouring to raise their
theories from a foundation of reality alone;
but, as they were men and not gods, of course,
they were liable to error, and often set out
upon their investigations entangled in a web
of previously-conceived abstract ideas, which
they set up as "laws of nature." But this
does not alter the fact that the Arabians were
the first who caught a glimpse of the method
by which alone natural science can be
conducted with any certainty or success—it is
the great step which separates ancient science
from modern research. Before we commence
our stories of the alchemists our readers may
possibly like to know something of what
alchemy professed to be and to do, but truly
it is such a wide subject, not only as regards
its general principles and modes of practice,
but also in its digressive tendencies, which
are infinite, that the information we give is
indeed superficial. There is scarcely anything
the imagination has ever conceived or
questioned concerning the operations of nature
that is not to be found in the records of
alchemy. We must pick our way through
the labyrinth as well as we can, and shall
only give what seems to us necessary for the
better understanding of the life and labours
of the class of men of whom we purpose to treat.

Alchemy had two great objects in view:
the first was the conversion of the metals into
one another by means of a single substance;
the second was, the cure of all diseases
whatever by the application of a single
remedy: the first to acquire an unlimited
supply of Fortunatus-purses of gold, and the
second to secure, if not an immortality, at
least a terribly long lease of this mortal life.
It was supposed by the alchemists and—traces
of the idea are to be seen in the earliest ages—
that all metals were mutually convertible.
Seven metals were known—namely: gold,
silver, quicksilver, copper, iron, tin, and lead.
These numbers, corresponding with the number
of the planets, were generally called by
alchemists Sol, Luna, Mercury, Venus, Mars,
Jupiter, and Saturn. The alchemists believed
that each planet stood in such close relation
and communication with its appropriate metal,
as to be constantly generating fresh quantities
of it in the depths of the earth. Each of
these metals was supposed to consist of
sulphur and mercury in different proportions
and in different degrees of purity; hence, by
adding what was deficient or subtracting
what was superfluous in the composition of
each metal, it might be changed into another.
Common mercury and common sulphur were
found not to answer the purpose, and, by
degrees, became two spiritual or elemental
principles called, for the sake of convenience,
by those common names. The mercury was
supposed to impart to metals their lustre and
ductility—their fixed properties; whilst the
sulphur conferred upon them their changeable
nature. Both elements were united in
each metal in different proportions and in
different degrees of purity and fixation—
which latter term had a very indefinite
meaning; sometimes it was merely the degree
in which the fusibility of the metals was
affected, and sometimes it was meant to
shadow forth what we now call affinity. Of
the metals, gold and silver were called perfect,
the others were, more or less, imperfect, and
the great object was to convert these imperfect,
into the perfect metals: yet, singularly
enough, the great masters of alchemy
disclaimed all sordid motives. This conversion
of the metals was to be effected by what
was compendiously termed the philosopher's
stone; but the word stone must be taken
figuratively, for it was not conceived to be a
stone at all, but a powder; and, in some of the
processes, a fluid—generally, the successful
adepts represented it as a red powder with a
faint smell. Before we have done, the reader
shall have the benefit of some of the directions
for obtaining this precious powder, and an
account of the different appearances it took
during the course of the work, before the
moment when it touched perfection. One of
the alchemists thus describes the result of his
labour:—"Our stone is nothing but an
odoneous spirit and a living water (which we
have also called dry water) purified by a
natural proportion, and united in such a way
that it can in nowise be absent from itself."
The alchemists were dreadfully afraid of
making their instructions intelligible to
general readers; and, from the name of one
of their chief writers—Geber—Dr. Johnson
derives the word gibberish, which was formerly