The second classic that any alchemist would have wanted in his or her collection of magical texts was the 1651 translation by John French of Agrippa's Three Books of Occult Philosophy. The original, published in 1531, had long been available to readers of Latin, but this was the first complete English translation. It was preceded by an effusive poetic encomium to Agrippa, who is described as “Natures Apostle, and her Choice High Priest, Her Mysticall, and bright Evangelist.” This verse was written by a certain “Eugenius Philalethes,” the pen name of Thomas Vaughan. The book's dedication was to Dr Robert Child, whose life epitomizes the extraordinary range of careers and biographies of alchemists of the 1650s. Child, a correspondent of Samuel Hartlib, had managed the Massachusetts ironworks of his friend and fellow alchemist John Winthrop the younger. Child fled New England in 1647 after his Presbyterianism landed him in trouble with the religious Independents who dominated the colony, and eventually settled in Ireland. The translator of Agrippa's Three Books praised Child for “being converted from vulgar, and irrational incredulities to the rational embracing of the sublime, Hermeticall and Theomagicall truths.”45 To read Agrippa's massive compendium of magic, apparently, was to enter the bosom of reason.
Agrippa's first book provides a definition of magic that is worth citing, because its influence spread throughout the occult thinking of the time:
Magick is a faculty of wonderfull vertue, full of most high mysteries, containing the most profound Contemplation of most secret things, together with the nature, power, quality, substance and virtues thereof, as also the knowledge of whole nature, and it doth instruct us concerning the differing, and agreement of things amongst themselves, whence it produceth its wonderfull effects, by uniting the virtues of all things through the application of them one to the other, and to their inferior sutable subjects, joining and knitting them together thoroughly by the powers and virtues of the superior Bodies. This is the most perfect, and chief Science, that sacred, and sublime kind of Phylosophy, and lastly the most absolute perfection of all most excellent Philosophy.46
If we leave out the “high mysteries,” which are not in any case made very specific, this definition resembles della Porta's “natural magic.” It too dealt with “secret things,” or at least hidden ones, through their power, quality, substance and virtues, with the aim of understanding the whole of nature. The word “Science” as used in Agrippa's last sentence would have carried more resonance in 1651 than it did when the author was alive, because by then it would have evoked the experimental methods espoused by Francis Bacon, and encouraged more recently by Samuel Hartlib.
When he suggested that magic was “the most absolute perfection of all most excellent Philosophy,” however, Agrippa implied that it gave insight into divine as well as natural things. This was a highly questionable position for orthodox Protestants, who recognized the divine only as it appeared in Scripture. Anything beyond that was suspect, because it might be inspired by the Devil. As D.P. Walker has pointed out, Agrippa was deliberately imprecise in distinguishing his ideas of magic from diabolism or devil worship.47 His second and third books rashly proceeded far beyond natural magic, into the realms of celestial magic (numerology, geometric figures) and ceremonial magic (the ritual evocation of angels or demons). This terrain was particularly dangerous in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, when diabolism was officially anathematized throughout Europe, leading to the execution of some sixty thousand alleged witches. In England, active witch-hunting revived in the late 1640s, with the encouragement of Parliament.48 Although its targets were elderly women, usually indigent or dependent on charity, rather than educated men, the possibility of running foul of the laws against witchcraft remained a real one for the devotees of Agrippa.
How could one reconcile Agrippa's problematic understanding of magic with intellectual respectability and Protestant religious orthodoxy? Some writers, like the botanist Robert Turner, were not much bothered by the question. In 1657, Turner translated and edited the first printed version of the Ars Notoria (the “Notory Arts of Solomon,” also known as the “Little Key of Solomon”), which was in fact a manual for summoning up spirits or angels, often condemned as a source for black magic. The Ars Notoria was the third book that every alchemical devotee of learned magic in the 1650s would have wanted to own, and probably the most subversive from an orthodox Protestant perspective. Turner was no obscure autodidact: he had studied at Cambridge, and was renowned for his translations of Paracelsus, as well as for a compendium of herbal remedies that included astrological notations. Nor was Turner simply a reviser of tired old magical formulae. Updating the fusty medieval prayers and rituals of the Ars Notoria, he included in his work “A certain Magnetick Experiment,” allowing “every Man or Woman” to convey thoughts telepathically to another person “by the virtue of the Loadstone,” that is, by magnetism.49 Apparently, Turner had no difficulty in uniting ritual magic with “magia naturalis.” He was also responsible for translating Agrippa's alleged Fourth Book, dealing with geomancy or divination by mathematical charts. Published in 1655, the edition proved popular enough to merit a reissue nine years later.50
By contrast with the radical Everard, the headstrong Agrippa or the mercurial Turner, Elias Ashmole was preoccupied not with publicizing magic, but with giving it intellectual respectability. If he never fully succeeded, at least he was able to cover his own occult thinking with an orthodox veneer. Ashmole was the editor of what must have been the most desirable addition to any collection of works on alchemy and magic in the 1650s, the magnificent Theatrum Chemicum Britannicum. This lengthy, beautifully produced, copiously illustrated anthology of alchemical works in verse by English authors—Thomas Norton, George Ripley, Geoffrey Chaucer, Thomas Charnock, Edward Kelly, John Dee—was first published in 1652. Because it celebrated only English seekers after the Stone, Theatrum Chemicum can be read as a call to national unity at a time of political crisis. “Our English Philosophers Generally, (like Prophets) have received little honour … in their owne Countrey,” wrote Ashmole, who intended to give it to them. English alchemists were ranked with those of ancient Israel, Greece, Rome and Arabia, implying a providential destiny for the nation as well as for those who shared in the great secret of the universe.51 Since Ashmole was a royalist, the longed-for rediscovery of the Stone may have been linked in his mind with the return of the Stuarts. Yet he avoided any mention of politics in the pages of Theatrum Chemicum, and nothing in his famous book would have been offensive to supporters of the Commonwealth. He strove to be accommodating towards those who held power, whoever they might be. Similarly, he tried to blunt any potential criticism from those who might object on religious grounds to the pursuit of alchemy.
In short, Ashmole was no Agrippa. Cautious and calculating, he preferred to edit rather than to author texts. Although his alchemical publications belong to the turbulent, sectarian 1650s, Ashmole remained, at least outwardly, a pillar of old-fashioned Anglicanism and respect for authority. Apart from a few brief passages in the “Prolegomenon” to Theatrum Chemicum, he never articulated a fully developed occult philosophy in print, although he was certainly familiar with the main Hermetic, Neoplatonic and Paracelsian authors, and had tried his hand at ritual magic. His own beliefs reflected an amalgamation of popular and learned sources that dealt with magic, including many texts of dubious origin or authorship, but he strove to present them as non-controversial, which involved him in some oddly twisted argumentation.
Ashmole's practical knowledge of alchemy was largely derived from his friend William Backhouse of Swallowfield, Berkshire, who “adopted” him as a “Son,” that is, as an alchemical pupil, in June 1651, just as the “Prolegomenon” was being written. On his deathbed two years later, according to Ashmole, Backhouse “told me in Silables the true Matter of the Philosophers Stone: which he bequeathed to me as a Legacy.”52 What “the true Matter” was, Ashmole did not reveal. Interestingly, Backhouse had also befriended Robert Turner, editor of the Ars Notoria, who
dedicated a translation of Paracelsus to him, calling him a “worthy Mecaenas.”53 Unlike Turner's, however, Ashmole's published works never delved very deeply into the occult thought that originated in other European nations. Instead, they focused on English adepts, envisioning a national school of alchemy of which Ashmole was, in many respects, the inventor as well as the intellectual heir. He presented alchemy as “a Way to Bliss,” a road to personal fulfilment rather than to universal enlightenment. It was a narrow path open only to the educated few, not a broad way to which the many might aspire. This helped to separate Ashmole's work from the unorthodox writings of utopians or sectarians like John Everard, whose learning he nonetheless grudgingly admired.54 Ashmole was writing for the benefit of an elite, not for “poor beggarly fellows.”
No matter how respectable he may have wanted to appear, Ashmole was strongly attracted to magic, which continually peeps out from beneath the opaque surfaces of his prose. The “Prolegomenon” to Theatrum Chemicum is haunted by a barely disguised desire for the supernatural power that the alchemist might attain. In these remarkable pages, which represent his sole, brief public foray into theory, Ashmole freely borrowed from a strange, visionary sixteenth-century manuscript in his collection entitled “Epitome of the Treasure of Health.”55 Like its anonymous author, Ashmole imagined not one but four Philosopher's Stones, the Natural as well as the “Vegitable, Magicall, and Angelicall,” of which only the first could be reproduced by modern efforts, informed by the chemical knowledge that the Greek poet Orpheus brought out of Egypt. Ashmole was evidently most fascinated, however, by the last Stone, which “affords the Apparition of Angells, and gives a power of conversing with them, by Dreams or Revelations.” Unfortunately, it had been known only to Moses, Solomon and Hermes Trismegistus.56 In his musings on the Angelical Stone, Ashmole revealed an aspect of spagyria that was seldom discussed by alchemical writers: namely, its efficacy as a conduit to the world of spirits. While he lamented that such a marvel was now humanly unattainable, he may not genuinely have believed that to be the case, especially in light of the discussion that he presented in the endnotes to Theatrum Chemicum.
Those remarkable notes, which discuss magic in some detail, veer back and forth between the natural and the supernatural, the respectable and the radical. The definition of magic that Ashmole initially proposes is lifted, almost verbatim, from Agrippa's quasi-scientific formulation. “Magick,” Ashmole writes, “is the Connexion of natural Agents and Patients, answerable each to other, wrought by a wise Man to the bringing forth of such effects as are wonderfull to those that know not their causes.” Does this mean that magic consists simply of natural effects, or does “wonderfull” imply, as it did for Agrippa, something supernatural? Ashmole does not immediately elucidate. Instead, he turns his back on the darker side of Agrippa, by reassuring “the most Pious” that “here is no Incantations, no Words, no Circles, no Charmes, no other Fragments of invented Fopperies.” In short, no demonic magic is to be found in true alchemy, only “Nature (with whom true Magicians only deale).” The statement does not accord very well with Ashmole's own private practices. In fact, he was addicted to the use of astrological charms, talismans and sigils. He even used them to drive rats and moles from his house.57 In his 1650 preface to an alchemical tract by Arthur Dee, Ashmole had maintained that charms and spells “have their several powers, if judiciously and warily disposed and handled.”58 Two years later, in Theatrum Chemicum, he was more circumspect in addressing the detestation of magic by “the most Pious,” perhaps because he saw them as holding authority within the Commonwealth.
In the end, however, Ashmole could not confine his investigations to nature. He eventually admits that natural magic, or “the bare application of Actives to Passives,” cannot penetrate “those Hidden Secrets, which God would have conceal'd.” Yet it is precisely those secrets that the alchemist wants to reveal. He aims beyond the sub-celestial or natural region, to approach the celestial and even the super-celestial. According to Ashmole, this allows the “great work” of alchemy to become truly virtuous: “the Production of things is Naturall, but the bringing forth of the vertue is not Naturall: because the things are Create, but the Vertues Increate.” What exactly did Ashmole mean here by the unusual adjective “Increate”? Perhaps virtues, because they are of divine origin, can only be brought forth by a magic higher than nature: that is, by something that is not created, meaning God. As he approaches the “Increate,” the magician or alchemist transcends nature and, “wrought up to his highest degree of Perfection, he shall see things not fit to be written; for (may I aver it with awfull Reverence) Angelicall wisdome is to be obteyned by it.” Ashmole has returned, by a roundabout route, to the forbidden concept of an Angelical Stone that grants divine revelations. Far from being unattainable, it now appears within the grasp of the adept, who has reached the limits of nature. He will stand with Moses, Solomon and Hermes Trismegistus as the possessor of an ultimate supernatural wisdom and power. With a reticence befitting an adept, Ashmole writes no more about it.59
The tortured shifts in argument that can be detected in Ashmole's Theatrum Chemicum give an appearance of inconsistency. This is understandable: in an age of political and religious upheaval, Ashmole was trying to shape a national heritage out of a body of material that was rife with dangerous invention, not to mention enthusiasm verging on heresy. Craving both divine knowledge and worldly respectability, he wanted to gesture towards the supernatural aims of alchemy while simultaneously associating it with the natural philosophy that had become a fixture of English intellectual life. Extraordinarily, he seems to have succeeded, to the extent that his book enhanced rather than damaged his own reputation among the scholars who dominated public learning after the Restoration. Ashmole's role as a founding Fellow of the Royal Society was sufficient evidence of that. By then, he had given up alchemical publications, and the promised second volume of Theatrum Chemicum never appeared, although he told the bookseller William Cooper that he had finished it in the late 1650s.60 Instead, the canny lawyer devoted himself to antiquarianism, heraldry and the formation of a museum of curiosities at Oxford. To be sure, alchemy and magic were never far from his thoughts, as his vast manuscript collection attests.
Ashmole's publications illustrate the difficulty of dividing late seventeenth-century alchemists into two different camps: “practical chemists” and “mystics” or “magi” who drew on occult philosophy.61 Ashmole was always fascinated by practical chemical recipes that might lead him towards “the Natural Stone,” but at the same time his view of alchemy was unquestionably rooted in the supernatural. He registered little awareness of a tension between magic and experimentalism or natural science. On the other hand, he was acutely sensitive to potential friction between alchemy and the tenets of orthodox religion, which he tried to minimize. As for religious mysticism, it held no attraction for him. He probably identified mystical views, like those of Everard, with the radical sectarianism that had brought down the monarchy. Ashmole may not have been typical, but other alchemists were clearly entranced by the supernatural foundations of their art. Isaac Newton owned a copy of the “Epitome of the Treasure of Health,” while Robert Boyle apparently dreamt, like Ashmole, of an Angelical Stone that would allow him to talk with superior beings.62 Perhaps more tellingly, no practical alchemist saw fit to answer Ashmole's magical notions in print. They circulated widely on account of the fame of Theatrum Chemicum, but we may search in vain for an outright refutation of them by any alchemical writer.
Magic did not inspire every alchemist equally. It rarely figures in George Starkey's famous works, most of which were written under the pseudonym “Eirenaeus Philalethes” and published posthumously. To be sure, “Philalethes” expressed himself in the oblique and allusive jargon of alchemy, which could be interpreted as concealing an occult philosophy as well as setting out a way to make gold. He also endorsed the processes of George Ripley, a favourite of Elias Ashmole. Ripley had written of “the Magical Cha
lybs” and the “Magical Solution of Sol,” terms that do not seem to have bothered “Philalethes” any more than they did Ashmole. In a meditation inspired by his reading of Ripley, “Philalethes” is reassured by a female figure of nature that “what you admire in this strange Metamorphosis of me, know that it is by a Magical Vertue, which is alone given to me from GOD,” rather than arrived at by “Diabolic arts.”63 This suggests that divine magic lies at the heart of alchemy, and that “Philalethes” was sensitive, as Ashmole was, to the accusation of diabolism. Still, it would be rash to claim “Philalethes” as an occult writer. During his lifetime, George Starkey was best known for giving practical alchemical advice aimed largely at medical practitioners. Eager to advertise his expertise with a view to finding patronage, he was more interested in challenging the medical establishment than in discussing occult philosophy.64 The contrast with Ashmole was as much professional as intellectual.
Ashmole himself was hardly an innovative occult thinker. His awkward, derivative and somewhat rudimentary evocation of alchemical magic did not really amount to a coherent philosophy. It provides a stark contrast with the far more original and provocative views of Thomas Vaughan who, in spite of being a priest of the Church of England, did not hesitate to publish the most effusive occult speculations. Unlike Ashmole, Vaughan was fiercely attacked, because he was not guarded enough in what he wrote about religion. He provides a clear example of what Ashmole feared so much: that an imaginative approach to the magical foundations of alchemy would attract vigorous condemnation from the outraged defenders of religious orthodoxy.
Thomas Vaughan, Theomagus
Ashmole identified a higher magic that dealt with divine things, but he did not dwell on its theological implications. He could not have done so without compromising his image of strict Anglican orthodoxy. This was where the most inventive magical writer of the 1650s, “Eugenius Philalethes,” added something of his own, which he called “Theomagia” or theological magic. “Eugenius Philalethes” was the pen name of Thomas Vaughan, the Welsh clergyman, royalist soldier, medical practitioner and alchemist. He invented it seven years before George Starkey began to call himself “Eirenaeus Philalethes,” so there is no question of who was imitating whom. Any serious collector of alchemical tracts in the 1650s would have eagerly awaited the appearance of Vaughan's publications, starting with Anthroposophia Theomagica (probably written in 1648, published in 1650), followed by Anima Magica Abscondita and Magia Adamica (both also 1650), Lumen de Lumine (1651), Aula Lucis (written in 1651, published under the pseudonym “S.N.” in 1652) and finally Euphrates (1655), not to mention his two comical replies to a scurrilous attack on his philosophy by Henry More, The Man-Mouse Taken in a Trap, and Tortur'd to Death (1650), and The Second Wash, or The Moore Scour'd Once More (1651).65 Although he had ceased to write before the Restoration, Vaughan's works continued to be both praised and attacked throughout the late seventeenth century.
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