Leaving, however, these questions of origin and derivation, let us come to that of the chemical doctrine taught in the book which Michael Scot compiled, or at least translated. The title of the Liber Luminis Luminum is a significant one, and has a real relation to the contents of the work itself.[135] To discover the sense which it must be held to bear we have only to turn to the passage in which, speaking of alum, the author says: ‘sicut illuminat pannos, ita illuminat martem ut recipiat formam lunae. Ut enim lana illuminatur ita et metalla illuminantur.’[136] A distinction is clearly present in the writer’s mind between the substance and the form of the metals. He probably held that there existed but one common metallic substance, which assumed the appearance of iron, gold, or silver, according to the form which it had received. His employment of the title Liber Luminis Luminum was meant to indicate that the purpose of his book was that of teaching the student how metals might best be purified and improved. Their inferiority, when of the baser kind, he conceived as an impurity, manifesting itself in the imperfect forms of lead, iron, tin, and copper. He believed that this being removed or changed by art, they might be made to shine with the lustre and indeed possess the only distinctive quality of gold and silver. That we have rightly read the meaning of this title seems plain from a curious spelling which may be noticed in the Liber Dedali. ‘Illuminantur’ there appears as ‘aluminantur.’ The chemistry taught in these books did in fact prescribe the use of alum as a great means of purifying and refining the metals.
The preface of the Liber Luminis closes with a brief summary of the chapters which compose the work itself. The first of these deals with the different salts used in this chemistry: common salt; rock salt; alkali; sal ammoniac; nitre and others. The second treats in like manner of the various kinds of alum, the third describes the vitriols, and the fourth the powders or spirits, by which we are to understand those minerals which are capable of being sublimed or made volatile, such as sulphur, arsenic, and mercury. Two supplementary chapters, the one on the preparation of the salts, alums, and vitriols, and the other on that of the remaining class of chemicals, complete the whole book. This supplement seems genuinely such, as it is not mentioned in the general contents, as these appear in the preface. Perhaps we do not err if we suppose it to have embodied the result of Scot’s own experiments in alchemy.
It is indeed the practical nature of the alchemical doctrine taught in the Liber Luminis which strikes us most strongly when we read this book. A large part of it is taken up with exact descriptions of the minerals, according to their various forms and the countries from which they were derived. The rest consists of receipts for their employment in refining metals. Whatever we may think of the validity and use of these processes, we cannot fail to notice that they are described in a perfectly straightforward and simple style. Here are none of the mysteries, the riddles and ridiculous allegories so common in chemical works written at a later time. The truth of the matter may probably be that, in following the doctrine here set forth, Michael Scot and the alchemists of his time did obtain results which were then so surprising, as to excuse a certain exaggeration in those who described them. Tests that could touch and reveal the real nature of the metals under any change of outward appearance were not then so well known as now. Copper that had been made to shine like gold, or to assume the appearance of silver, was practically gold or silver to those who had no means of discovering that the real nature of the metal itself remained unchanged. Thus then are to be understood the assertions of the Liber Luminis regarding transmutation. They are plainly made in all good faith, and depend on the doctrine already mentioned, which held that the differences between the metals were an affair of the superficial form rather than of the underlying substance. To change the appearance of one metal to that of another, was therefore to effect a real transmutation: the only one conceivable by the philosophers of that time. When the Liber Luminis speaks of giving copper ‘a good colour,’ or preparing iron to ‘receive the appearance (formam) of silver,’ these expressions reveal with frank sincerity the conceptions of this alchemy and the results it endeavoured to obtain.
One other alchemical work attributed to the pen of Michael Scot remains to be noticed; the De Alchimia, contained in a manuscript of Corpus Christi College, Oxford.[137] Tanner in his Bibliotheca has noticed this work in the following terms: ‘Chymica quaedam ex interpretatione Michaelis Scoti dedicata Theophilo regi Scotorum. Corpus Christi MS. 125. In eodem codice MS. fol. est haec nota “Explicit tractatus magistri Michaelis Scoti de aelchali,” huius vero tractatus, a priore diversi, hoc tantum fol. extat.’ This account is erroneous in several particulars. ‘Scotorum’ should be ‘Saracenorum,’ and ‘de aelchali’ is a misreading of ‘de alkimia,’ as a glance at the manuscript informs us. Nor is it the case that we have here to deal with two distinct works. The last leaf, to which Tanner more particularly refers (fol. 119, old numeration), shows a hand of the fourteenth century, and forms the only remainder of the original. The rest of the manuscript (fol. 116-118) has been supplied by a scribe of the fifteenth century, but the whole is perfectly continuous, as appears plainly when we notice that the first words of the original (fol. 119 recto), ‘et cum siccatus,’ have also been written by the later scribe at the bottom of page 118 verso.
In spite of the highly suspicious dedication, ‘Theophilo Regi Saracenorum,’ several reasons incline us to regard the De Alchimia as, in substance at least, a genuine work of Michael Scot. To begin with, it clearly belongs to a very early period; for, in the opening words of his preface, the author describes alchemy as a science, noble indeed, but as yet neglected and contemned by the Latins (‘apud Latinos penitus denegatam’). In the same sentence we find him referring to the secreta naturae, just as Scot does in the Liber Luminis, and declaring his purpose to furnish the world with a commentary on it in the work he now attempts (‘secreta naturae intelligentibus revelare’). In the opening paragraph of the book itself he seems to refer plainly to the Liber Luminis as a work written by him (‘notitia de salibus vel salium prout in aliquo libro a me translato dixi’). Nor should we overlook the distinctly ecclesiastical tone which is to be observed in the De Alchimia. Part of the preface is conceived almost in the form of a prayer, commencing thus: ‘Creator omnium rerum Deus qui cuncta ex nihilo condidit,’ and in at least one passage, a well-known text of Scripture is reproduced (‘et haec est res quae erigit de stercore pauperem et ipsum regibus equiparat’). This style is a noticeable characteristic of all the works of Michael Scot.
On the other hand, the De Alchimia shows several doubtful features which, on the supposition that it came from Scot’s pen, can only have been due to some interference with the text at a subsequent time. Such is the dedication to Theophilus, King of the Saracens, which we have already noticed, and the latter part of the preface shows a turgid passage (‘hic est puteus Salomonis et fimi acervus, et hic est fons in quo latet anguis cuius venenum omnia corpora interficit,’ etc.) that strongly recalls the fancies of the later alchemy.
The body of the work, however, is no doubt genuine, and offers matters of considerable interest. The first of these is perhaps the distinction drawn here between the greater and the lesser mystery (magisterium) of alchemy. The former, it seems, was the transmutation of Venus into the Sun; that is, of copper into gold. The latter comprehended the fixation of mercury and its transmutation into the Moon, or silver.
We soon notice too that the author addresses himself not, as one would at first expect, to ‘Theophilus,’ but to a certain Brother Elias (‘tibi Fratri Helya’)—another proof, if any were needed, that the dedication to the apocryphal King of the Saracens was due to some other and later hand. ‘Brother Elias,’ however, was far from being a merely imaginary personage. He was an Italian, born (for accounts vary) either at Bivillo near Assisi, Cellullae or Ursaria near Cortona, or in Piedmont. In 1211 he joined the Order of St. Francis, then just formed, thus becoming one of its earliest members. His history as a Franciscan was rather an eventful one. On the death of St. Francis in 1226 he succeeded the Founder as General of the Order, but was deposed by the Pope in 1230 on some suspicion that he favoured schism among his brethren. The Order re-elected him in 1236, but he was finally removed from office by Gregory three years later, and profited by the occasion to join himself openly to the party of the Emperor. For this he suffered excommunication in 1244, and was not restored to the privileges of the Church till 1253, when he lay on his death-bed at Cortona. There is no doubt that he had the reputation of possessing skill in alchemy, as a treatise is extant called the Liber Fratris Eliae de Alchimia.[138] This renown would not tend to his honour in religion. It seems indeed to invest with a cruel and pointed meaning the words used by the Pope on the occasion of his first deposition.[139] He is said to have been sent in early days on an embassy to the Emperor of the East. Perhaps this may have been the occasion when he first acquired a taste for those chemical studies which that nation still pursued. Michael Scot addresses him in the De Alchimia as a pupil (‘Et ego, Magister Michael Scotus, sum operatus super solem, et docui te, Fr. Elia, operari et tu mihi saepius retulisti te instabiliter multis viabus operasse’), while at the same confessing that he was not above learning some of the secrets of art from the well-known Franciscan. This relation between two such distinguished men has not hitherto been noticed, and is certainly a curious point in the history of the times.
The De Alchimia presents several features which distinguish it from the Liber Luminis. One of these is an early passage which refers to the correspondence between the metals and the planets, and explains that when the latter are named we must understand that the former are intended. Near the end of the treatise a description of the materia chemica occurs, but it would seem as if this had been written to supplement that given in the Liber Luminis, for it deals, not with salts, alums, vitriols, or volatile substances, but with the different varieties of what the author calls ‘gummae,’ which, however, are mineral substances;[140] and with ‘tuchia’ in all its various kinds.
Many words and phrases, however, might be cited to show how the strain of doctrine observable in the Liber Luminis is continued with scarcely any change in the De Alchimia. We have hardly read a line in the first receipt before we meet with the expression ‘sanguinem hominis rufi’ recalling the ‘sanguinem hominis rubei’ of the Liber Luminis. The ‘pulvis bufonis’ indeed is here replaced by another ingredient derived from the animal kingdom, the ‘sanguis bubonis’; but, reading a little further, we find the familiar ‘urina taxi’ again recommended as an almost universal solvent and detergent. Evidently both works proceeded from one and the same alchemical school. The number of Arabian chemists[141] cited in the De Alchimia seems to show that if these books came from a Greek source it was not that of ancient times, but some Byzantine school that had borrowed much from Eastern alchemists.