Loves Garland/Introduction
INTRODUCTION.
n an address to the Sette of Odd Volumes, March 31, 1882, his Ex-Oddship, Bernard Quaritch, our “Librarian,” in allusion to myself as “Auditor” for that year, remarked that my duties would be light; but that he hoped I should, on that account, from time to time favour the Sette with my researches with the crucible (in my capacity as Alchymist to the Sette). “In time,” he remarked, “Bro. Brown will no doubt discover the Philosopher’s Stone, and issue it as an Odd Volume.” Bro. C. W. H. Wyman on another occasion announced that I intended to write and in due time present to you “a History of Finger Rings.”
I have always held a profound reverence for the “Fathers of our Sette,” and felt that I was in duty bound not altogether to ignore what had fallen from their lips; I therefore set to work to think in what way I could carry out the spirit of their remarks. In his statement, Bro. Wyman forgot that abler men than myself had already dealt with the subject in such a way that it would have been superfluous, not to say impertinent, for me to attempt to handle it after them; there were likewise other and more cogent reasons why I should not do so.
I began to think with Falstaff,—
For Bro. Quaritch’s remarks, although only made suggestively, seemed to me almost to amount to a command, coming as they did from the Imperial Cæsar of the Sette. I knew he held strong views (and I uphold him in them) that each member of the Sette should endeavour by some overt act to show that he rightly understood the raison-d’être of its existence.
With regard to myself, the high dignity of being the Alchymist to the Sette had been allotted to me, and if there were one thing above all others that it was incumbent on me to do it was to try to solve for ever the great problem of centuries, the existence of the Philosopher’s Stone; this, at any rate, was Bro. Quaritch’s opinion, and he spoke with authority. Bro. Cornelius Walford, our esteemed Master of the Rolls, may say:—
“Nemo tentetur ad impossibile.”
But this hardly meets the question, for it is an acknowledged fact that to Bro. Quaritch nothing is impossible; hence, having resolutely and determinedly refused in his own mind to believe in the non-existence of the Philosopher’s Stone, he, regardless of all consequences, bequeathed the vexed question to an “Odd Volume” to unravel. That a weighty task was before me you will all admit.
I found myself launched as it were on an unknown sea, and I appeal to you all not to crush me by your criticism on these few remarks I am about to make, but rather to deal charitably with me; for, after all my labours, the surprise to myself is, that
“Yet I live and bear
The aspect and the form of breathing man.”
Often as I have sat in my sanctum, crucible before me, boiling and coagulating, watching and waiting, hoping against hope, till my very senses seemed to depart from me, have I exclaimed with Manfred,—
“The lamp must be replenished, but even then
It will not last so long as I must watch!—
My slumbers, if I slumber, are not sleep,
But a continuance of enduring thought
Which then I can resist not.”
It would be tedious as well as unprofitable were I to enlarge on the loss of nerve-power my labours cost me. The names of the following books will give some idea of the amount of literary work alone to be done before one can hope to acquire anything but a superficial knowledge of the great subject.
- Roger Bacon, Thesaurus Chemicus, 8vo, Francof., 1603.
- Francis Bacon Lord Verulam, Hist. of Metals, vol., London, 1670.
- J. J. Becher, Opera Omnia, Francof., 1680.
- Chymia Philosophica, 8vo, Nuremberg, 1639.
- John Espagnet, Enchiridion Philosophiæ Hermeticæ, Paris, 1638.
- Robert Fludd, Clavis Alchimiæ, 2 vols., Francof.
- T. R. Glauber, Works, Chemistry, fol. London, 1689.
- Hermis Trismegisti, Traduction par J. Mesnard, 8vo, Paris.
- J. Kunkel, Experiments, 8vo, London, 1705.
- Paracelsi, Opera Omnia. Preface by Fred. Bitiski, 2 vols. folio.
- J. B. Porta, De Æris Transmutationibus, 4to, Romæ, 1610.
- Quercetan, Hermetical Physic, 4to, London, 1605.
- Georgii Ripley, Opera Omnia, 8vo, Cassel, 1649.
- J. Trithemius, De Lapide Philosophico, 8vo, Paris, 1617.
- Basil Valentin, Last Will, &c., 8vo, London, 1671.
But, having committed myself to a course, it was clearly my duty to prolong my efforts and to try every means open to me before admitting myself baffled.
It then occurred to me that I might, like Glendower in Shakspeare’s “Henry IV.,” “call spirits from the vasty deep.” I resolved therefore to summon those of the most learned alchymists of the past, and to commune with them, that I might have the shades of these distinguished men before me while my lamp was burning,—nay, even while my efforts to transmute the baser metals into gold were progressing.
Firstly, I called up that great Arabian Alchymist, Gebir, who has been worthily called a “captayne and a prince of this science.” I found him affable and ready to give me any hints in his power, a great scholar and learned in all the sciences. His famous work the Summa Perfectionis, or Lapis Philosophorum, was of great assistance to me. My next visitor was our own countryman, Roger Bacon (1214–1292). I found his society all I could wish. A Franciscan Monk, but one who had evidently devoted more of his thoughts to alchymic research than to his religious duties, he held a most high opinion of Gebir, and believed very firmly in the possibility of the baser metals being converted into gold. He had, he said, “great faith in the Elixir of Life,” which he considered to be potable gold, otherwise aqua regia, viz. gold dissolved in nitro-chloric acid. He laughed while he told me how he had tried to convert Pope Nicholas IV. to his views, by telling him a story of a labourer in Sicily, who found one day on the island a golden phial full of yellow liquor, which he thought for the moment was dew, and drank, and became from that moment a hale and strong youth. I was desirous of learning more concerning this youth, but I regret to say Roger Bacon appeared to know very little about his subsequent career; he had heard, he said, that he was a great reader, and was to be constantly seen at the British Museum Library; he was fond of old books, and “Ye Boke of ye Odd Volumes” had much delighted him, also “B. Q., a Biographical and Bibliographical Fragment,” by C. W. H. Wyman, but he could not vouch for these things. “You see,” he added, thoughtfully, “we never meet now; for, alas! I did not take the Elixir when I might have done so.”
Then, changing his tone, he added, more cheerfully: “Ask his Holiness Pope Leo XIII. I am sure, at the mention of my name, the Papal Archives will be readily opened to you or any member of the Sette of Odd Volumes who would desire to pursue the inquiry further, from an Historical or Archæological point of view,”[1] and I promised to do so. Before he left, I put a question as to the report that had got abroad, in which it was asserted that he had been poisoned by the Monks of Gray Friars at the moment when he was about to partake of the “Elixir Vitæ.”
This was, however, a delicate question: his look was such that I reproached myself afterwards that I had made it, for up to this time he had been over-anxious to give me the advantage of all his learning. I felt he was evidently disinclined to compromise his co-religionists, so I turned the conversation on to his three great works,—the “Opus Majus,” “Opus Minus,” and “Opus Tertium,” and assured him I would lose no time in procuring them, as they would aid me materially in my discoveries; and, I may remark, I have found them invaluable.
I could not but feel a sense of regret at parting from this most distinguished man, his manner was so genial and his mental calibre of so high and cultivated an order.
I next conjured up Albrect Groot (1193–1280); he apologised for correcting me, but remarked he was better known as “Albertus Magnus.” He was, like Bacon, a “monk,” but of the Dominican order, and very reserved, and it was with difficulty I gathered much about his opinions; he, however, said, he thought few alchymists possessed a greater knowledge of the art than the famous Gebir, with many of whose theories he thoroughly coincided.
Before leaving he introduced me to his pupil, Thomas Aquinas, who proved to be a most interesting guest.
In turn came Raymund Lully (1235–1315), the great “Doctor Illuminatus”; Arnaldus de Villa Nova; and that splendid specimen of an alchymist, the well-known Dutchman “Isaacus Hollandus.” With the last-named I was particularly struck. I found him an astute scholar and profound thinker. My interview was, of necessity, short; added to which, the space at my command is of too limited a nature to allow of my describing in detail the opinions of all these noble pioneers of modern science; for I deem it a great mistake, and one almost universally made, to class them among the tricksters and cheats of the day in which they lived.
False views they may have held, but in nearly every instance these views were founded on a substratum of truth, and were, at any rate, held conscientiously.
Of all my guests, one of the most interesting was assuredly Basil Valentine; in answer to my inquiry, he said he had no doubt that the “Philosopher’s Stone” was a compound of mercury, sulphur, and salt; but, he added with emphasis, so pure, that when mixed with the baser metals they were brought to a greater degree of purity, bringing them at last to the state of silver and gold. He strongly urged me to read his great work, “Currus Triumphalis Antimonii,” and I can earnestly recommend it to you all as a most masterly production on the great subject on which it treats.
To tell you of all the minor lights of alchymic science that have obeyed my summons would be but to tire you; I must not omit to name, however, that of the great Paracelsus; he corrected me, and begged I would call him by the name he was proud to be known by,—“Theophrastus Aureolus Bombastes Paracelsus.” He said he agreed with many of Roger Bacon’s ideas; was, moreover, convinced that that glorious Elixir, which would prolong life indefinitely, had been discovered by him; “but,” he added, passing his hands over his brow, thoughtfully, “I procrastinated. I made the same mistake Roger Bacon made, I did not drink of the Elixir in time, and so died before I could reap the benefit of my discovery. I should have rejoiced to have been your guest at a meeting of the Sette of ‘Odd Volumes’ one night. By the bye,” he resumed, “there is a very good article on Alchemy in the Encyclopædia Britannica (1879); in this the writer says of me: ‘His work, like his genius, oscillates perpetually between magic and science; but what has not been sufficiently observed, Science invariably ends by carrying the day;’ if he is giving you ‘a recipe for making gold,’ he ends by breaking a lance with the seekers for gold. This is true of me,” added my visitor, “‘Vita Ignis corpus Lignum.’ By the way,” said he, “you tell me you are preparing a little work for the Sette of ‘Odd Volumes.’ Give up this question of the ‘Philosopher’s Stone’: surely there are other themes of ordinary every-day life, of far more general interest.”
(Here I saw a little figure of Cupid had pierced my lattice window, and was flying across the room with his eyes fixed on me.)
“What think you of ‘Love,’ and ‘Sentiment’? Are such things known among you now?” I noticed the eyes of the philosopher fill as he said this, and, standing erect, he exclaimed:—
“Away,”[2] my dear Brother Alchymist, “with these false disciples who hold that our divine Science has no other end but that of making gold and silver. True Alchymy has but one aim and object,—to extract the quintessence and to prepare Arcana tinctures and elixirs which may restore to man the health and soundness he has lost.”
With these words the great Physician and Alchymist departed. I looked up,—Cupid, too, had flown; still his “glittering eyes” seemed to hold me. In a moment my thoughts were again concentrated on the crucible: it was too late, the opportunity which I had so long desired had come, I had failed to seize it, and my dream of being the discoverer of the “Philosopher’s Stone” had melted away into thin air.
Before, however, I go further in my narration, I will venture to place before the reader a curious passage from an early Black-letter Book in my possession, believing it to be of some value as touching on my great theme.
I give the title in extenso:—
A new booke of destillatyon of
waters, called the Treasure of EVONYMVS,
&c. Translated (with great dilligence
and labour) out of Latin, by Peter
Morwyng, felowe of Magdaline
Colledge in Oxforde.
Emprinted at London by John Day, dwelling
over Aldersgate, beneath Saynt Martines.
1559.
May not be out of place.
The author, in his preface to the reader, thus remarks:—
The art of destillation (which they call Chymia, Alchimia, Alkimia, Chemia Suidas calleth it, and Alchemia) hath inuented many profitable things for mans lyfe, and in Phisick also certain marueilous thinges, and prase-worthye, if a man prepare them right and diligentlye.
After further remarks on the “art of destillation,” the author relates the following story, which I offer to the reader as he gives it, deeming it well worthy of being rescued from obscurity:—
At Padway in Italy in our time was founde a most auncient monument, namelye an earthen pot, hauing written vpon it this Hexasticon.
Ignotum est vobis hoc quod in vrna latet,
Namque elementa graui clausit digesta labore,
Vase sub hoc modico, Maximus Olibius:
Adsit sœcundo custos sibi copiacornu,
Ne prætium tanti depereat laticis.
Unknown is it to you all, this that is hid in a pot.
For the elements hath i shut up digested with much paine,
In this smal vessel the great Olibius certayne,
Plenty with thy fruitefull horn as a guarde be thou present,
Least the price pearish of this liquor most excellent.
Within this pot was an other little pot with the inscription of these verses:—
Vos quid voltis cum vostris oculis emissitiis?
Abite hic vostro cum Mercurio petasato caduceatoque.
Maximus maximo donum Plotoni hoc sacrum facit.
What seek ye with your spying eies, why do you pose and pry,
Hence with your hatted Mercury, and with his rod also.
This gift is sacred by the greatest vnto the greatest Ploto.
Again, within this little pot was found a light yet burning betwene two Phials, the one of Golde, the other of Silver, ful of a certayne moste pure liquor, by the vertue whereof they beleue that this lighte hadde burnte manye a yeare, as dyd note in their collections and gatherings of auncient inscriptions or Poesies, Petrus Appianus and Bartholomeus, Amantius, Hermolaus, Barbarus also in hys Corollarium or addicion vpon Dioscorides made mention of this same thing, where as he entreateth of waters in comun. There is also (saith he) a heauenlye water or rather diuine of the Chymistes, whyche bothe Democritus and Mercury Trimegistus knewe, callyng it sometymes a deuine water, sometimes a Scythicall liquor, sometimes pneuma, that is, spirit of the nature of the firmament and of the first essens or substance of things: whereof potable gold and that
“Philosophers Stone”
much spoken of, but not yet found, consisteth.
This kinde of liquor, as I suppose, doth the Epigramme signifie, of late found within the field of Padua, nie vnto the village called Atesta, made upon earthen or bricke mettal, and therefore frail, and broken vnawares by the handes of a man of the country digging the ground in the same place. The remembrance whereof least it should perish, we haue added hereunto the very words: This holy gift to the God, &c. as before.
The above is of interest, for there is no doubt that some learned alchymist had prepared this tincture for the benefit of mankind, and that with it the Philosopher’s Stone might easily have been evolved; but, alas! the pots were dashed into pieces, and it is not given to us to revel in eternal youth.
But failing to transmute the baser metals into gold,—in spite of all my repeated experiments and wearied watchings,—I am fain to take the precious metal, pure as Dame Nature gives it us from Mother Earth; truly in all ages great and marvellous things have been done with it. If we go back to the earliest ages of which we have historic data, gold seems to have been an important factor in daily life. In the old Jewish books it is mentioned as being most plentiful. In the Book of Genesis we hear of the “whole Land of Havilah where there is gold, and the gold of that land is good.” Almost everything seems to have been made of gold; lamps, tongs, candlesticks, snuffers, censers, spoons, to say nothing of articles of adornment. “Job” had a quantity of the precious metal, for every one gave him “an ear-ring of gold.” As to Solomon he made the Altars and Tables of gold, 200 targets and 300 shields of gold; and Daniel wore a chain of gold round his neck. Then from most early times rings were made of gold—marriage and betrothal rings. Pythagoras, in one of his maxims, says, “Never wear too tight a ring”; this has been interpreted rightly or wrongly as a warning against matrimony. If, then, so much can be done with gold, it is not to be wondered at that men in later ages sought to transmute it from the other metals; but for the present let me leave my alchymical researches. I have said that marriage or betrothal-rings were made of gold, and it is on these I venture now to make a few remarks. To enter broadly into the history of finger-rings would be but to traverse the works of the Rev. C. W. King (“Antique Gems and Rings”) and Mr. William Jones (“Finger-ring Lore”), both of whom have dealt exhaustively with the subject; to attempt anything of this kind is not my intention. Mr. King tells us (in his beautiful work just alluded to) that “Gold was before the introduction of coinage much in use among the Egyptians, and circulated in the form of a ring, and the Egyptian on his marriage placed one of these rings of gold on his bride’s finger in token of his intrusting her with all his property”; and Clemens remarks “that the early Christians saw no harm in following this custom.” In our own marriage ceremony the man places the same plain gold ring on his bride’s finger when he says, “With all my worldly goods I thee endow.” The plain hoop of gold as a marriage or betrothal-ring appears to have been of very early origin. In the latter part of the fourteenth century it was customary to have a motto or “Posy” engraved outside the ring; this continued during the fifteenth century; in the sixteenth and seventeenth the “Posies” were engraved inside. The practice of inscribing rings existed largely in France and Germany as well as in England. Martin Luther on his marriage had a wedding-ring consisting of two parts, one portion of which was set with diamond, the other with ruby, the motto being
“What God doth join no man shall part.”
Rare “Ben Jonson” thus alludes to mottoes on betrothal or marriage rings in his comedy of the “Magnetic Lady”; the clergyman has to perform a hasty marriage, and asks, “Have you a wedding-ring?” to which he gets this reply, “Ay, and a Posie,”—
“Annulus hic nobis, quod sic uterque dabit.”
The quarrel between Nerissa and Gratiano in Shakespeare’s “Merchant of Venice” is well known,
That she did give me; whose posy was,
For ail the world, like cutlers’ poetry
Upon a knife, ‘Love me, and leave me not.’”
St. Louis of France, it is said, had for his posy
“Dehors cet anel, pourrion avoir amour.”
Our own Henry VIII. when he married Ann of Cleves,
“God send me wel to kepe.”
Margaret, wife of the famous John Talbot Earl of Shrewsbury,
“Til deithe depart.”
The custom seems to have been general in all ranks of life.
Some years back a substantial gold wedding-ring was found inside a cod-fish, caught in Hants Harbour, Newfoundland: it bore this posy inside, cut in block letter,—
“May God above continew our love.”
Doubtless this ring could tell a tale if it could only speak and let us know the history of its chequered career.
Dr. John Thomas, Bishop of Lincoln, appears to have been tolerably used to the marriage service; on marrying his fourth wife he is said to have chosen for his posy,—
“If I survive I’ll make them five.”
Another reverend Bishop (Cokes) gave his wife a ring on her marriage, on which were represented a Hand, a Heart, a Mitre, and a Death’s Head, with posy,—
Till the fourth set me free.”
Dr. George Bull, Bishop of St. David’s (1703), had,—
“Bene parêre, parere det mihi Deus.”
Chaucer, in the prologue to the “Knight’s Tale,” speaks of the Prioresse having
On which was first i-written a crowned A,
And after that ‘Amor vincit omnia.’”
This last posy was largely used subsequently inscribed on rings.
These Mottoes or Posies were often witty and quaint, but invariably they were sentimental; the custom of having the Motto on the ring survives to this day, but the posy is cut and enamelled on the hoop, instead of being engraved as heretofore.
In this painfully matter-of-fact age it is too often sought to eliminate sentiment from the thoughts of daily life, and I fancy I can see a smile on the face of him who reads the posy of the gallant of the seventeenth century,—
’Tis he must kiss thee when thou art old.”
But smile as you will, my cynical reader, life is but a poor farce, and drearily played too, when the emotional part of human nature is expunged therefrom. By all means let us have positive philosophy and abstract science, but I exhort you let us leaven these with the fancies of dreamland, and pleasures of sentiment and love; or, Is Life worth living, after all?
But I approach the end: at the moment when the Philosopher’s Stone might have been discovered, Cupid burst through my lattice, and, with a smile more of heaven than of earth, fixed his eyes on me, and seemed to beckon me to his abode. The shade of Paracelsus, too, had urged me to desist from my studies with the crucible. Thus it is, then, that I find myself in a land of flowers where the posy,
“Amor omnia vincit,”
is supreme. The words “Away with those false disciples who hold that this divine science has no other end but that of making gold and silver,” ring in my ears.
If I have failed to discover to you the Philosopher’s Stone, let me at any rate venture to hope that you may gather pleasure from the perusal of the little book I now offer you,—
“Loves Garland,” etc.
Possibly the utterances of hearts that lived over a period of three hundred years from the present time may vibrate with your own, and you may not think my labours with the crucible altogether in vain. Possibly in these quaint and sentimental love-thoughts you, in your turn, may discover those “arcana tinctures and elixirs” which, the great master of alchymic art last quoted tells us, “will restore you to the health and soundness you have lost.” With this result I shall not have laboured in vain, and you will all admit I have tried my hardest to obey the command of our ex-Oddship, Bro. Quaritch,
“To discover the Philosopher’s Stone,”
and present it to you accordingly as an Odd Volume.
Now, in my “mind’s eye,” I see a sceptical, unpoetical Brother, who can evolve nothing from his inner consciousness but the conception of hard solid facts: he says with Hamlet,—“Man delights not me, nor women either.” His mind has been intent on the absolute discovery of the Philosopher’s Stone; and he is almost angry with me that I have not discovered it. He smiles at my story of the Sicilian labourer; and, as to the Vases of “Padway in Italy,” he believes them to be mythical and unreal; and he denounces, too, the elegant Hexasticons inscribed on them as meaningless nonsense; and, as to Peter Morwyng’s translation of them, he wonders that I can have the audacity to place such before you, deeming it far below the standard of the smallest school-boy.
He seems to say:—“Love’s Garland!” Bah! sentimental rubbish! One may handle a stone,—it is absolute, real, tangible; but poetry, sentiment, and love! what are they? mere idealistic fancies of the brain; you try to grasp them—they are gone!
To this Brother I reply,—
My dear dry-as-dust, pachydermatous friend, the “arrow” I have shot has failed to pierce your unemotional matter-of-fact soul; and I beseech you “cudgel your brains no more about” this matter, for assuredly “your dull ass will not mend his pace with beating.”
You still ask for the Philosopher’s Stone. I would liken you to “Ananias,” the deacon, in Ben Jonson’s play of the “Alchymist”; I would expatiate to you on the “Ars Sacra,” and name to you the “vexations and martyrisations” of the metals; I would ask you, Can you sublime and dulcifie? calcine? Do you comprehend putrefaction, solution, ablution, sublimation, cahabation, calcination, ceration, fixation? Are you aware that cahabation is the “pouring on your Aqua regis” and “then drawing him off to the Trine circle of the seven Spheres”? Know you that Mercury is known by his Viscosity, Oleosity, and Suscitability? that “he is a very fugitive Sir,” “he will be gone!” and that you may sublime him with the calce of egg-shells, white marble, or chalk?
You look perplexed at my simple questions, and reply with Ananias the Deacon,—That this is all “Heathen Greek” to you. Believe me, my dear unsentimental, sceptical friend, “there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy”; there are more ways of giving happiness to mankind than in discovering the Philosopher’s Stone.
Is my meaning Heathen Greek to you still?
The expression of pain, vexation, and disappointment on your brow tells me but too forcibly your answer. In my despair, then, I will define to you this “Lapis Philosophicus”; but hereafter I would beg of you never to raise the question, or albeit you may fail to elicit so truthful an answer as that given by the drudge, Face, in the famous play before named, as follows:—
Spirit, a Soul, and a Body:
Which if you do dissolve it, it is dissolved;
If you coagulate, it is coagulated;
If you make it fly, it flyeth.”
How now? Is it Heathen Greek to you still? J. R. B.
