Читать книгу Heroes of Science: Chemists - M. M. Pattison Muir - Страница 15

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Early chemistry was not a science. The ancient chemists dealt chiefly with what we should now call chemical manufactures; they made glass, cleaned leather, dyed cloth purple and other colours, extracted metals from their ores, and made alloys of metals. No well-founded explanations of these processes could be expected either from men who simply used the recipes of their predecessors, or from philosophers who studied natural science, not by the help of accurate experiments, but by the unaided light of their own minds.

At somewhat later times chemistry assumed a very important place in the general schemes propounded by philosophers.

Change is vividly impressed on all man's surroundings: the endeavour to find some resting-place amidst the chaos of circumstances, some unchanging substance beneath the ever-changing appearances of things, has always held a prominent place with those who study the phenomena of the world which surrounds them. In the third and fourth centuries of our era much attention was given to the art which professed to explain the changes of Nature. Religion, philosophy, and what we should now call natural science, were at that time closely intermingled; the scheme of things which then, and for several centuries after that time, exerted a powerful influence over the minds of many thinkers was largely based on the conception of a fundamental unity underlying and regulating the observed dissimilarities of the universe.

Thus, in the Emerald Table of Hermes, which was held in much repute in the Middle Ages, we read—

"True, without error, certain and most true: that which is above is as that which is below, and that which is below is as that which is above, for performing the miracles of the One Thing; and as all things were from one, by the mediation of one, so all things arose from this one thing by adaptation: the father of it is the Sun, the mother of it is the Moon, the wind carried it in its belly, the nurse of it is the Earth. This is the father of all perfection, the consummation of the whole world."

And again, in a later writing we have laid down the basis of the art of alchemy in the proposition that "there abides in nature a certain pure matter, which, being discovered and brought by art to perfection, converts to itself proportionally all imperfect bodies that it touches."

To discover this fundamental principle, this One Thing, became the object of all research. Earth and the heavens were supposed to be bound together by the all-pervading presence of the One Thing; he who should attain to a knowledge of this precious essence would possess all wisdom. To the vision of those who pursued the quest for the One Thing the whole universe was filled by one ever-working spirit, concealed now by this, now by that veil of sense, ever escaping identification in any concrete form, yet certainly capable of being apprehended by the diligent searcher.

Analogy was the chief guide in this search. If it were granted that all natural appearances were manifestations of the activity of one essential principle, then the vaguest and most far-fetched analogies between the phenomena of nature might, if properly followed up, lead to the apprehension of this hidden but everywhere present essence.

The history of alchemy teaches, in the most striking manner, the dangers which beset this method of pursuing the study of Nature; this history teaches us that analogies, unless founded on carefully and accurately determined facts, are generally utterly misleading in natural science.

Let us consider the nature of the experimental evidence which an alchemist of the fourth or fifth century could produce in favour of his statement that transmutation of one kind of matter into another is of constant occurrence in Nature.

The alchemist heated a quantity of water in an open glass vessel; the water slowly disappeared, and when it was all gone there remained in the vessel a small quantity of a white earthy solid substance. What could this experiment teach save that water was changed into earth and air? The alchemist then plunged a piece of red-hot iron into water placed under a bell-shaped glass vessel; some of the water seemed to be changed into air, and a candle, when brought into the bell, caused the air therein to take fire. Therefore, concluded the experimenter, water is proved to be changeable into fire.

A piece of lead was then strongly heated in the air; it lost its lustre and became changed into a reddish-white powder, very unlike lead in its properties; this powder was then heated in a convenient vessel with a little wheat, whereupon the lead was again produced. Therefore, said the alchemist, lead is destroyed by fire, but it can be reproduced from its ashes by the help of heat and a few grains of corn.

The experimenter would now proceed to heat a quantity of a mineral containing lead in an open vessel made of pulverized bones; the lead slowly disappeared, and at the close of the experiment a button of silver remained. Might he not triumphantly assert that he had transmuted lead into silver?

In order that the doctrine of the transmutation of metals might rest on yet surer evidence, the alchemist placed a piece of copper in spirits of nitre (nitric acid); the metal disappeared; into the green liquid thus produced he then placed a piece of iron; the copper again made its appearance, while the iron was removed. He might now well say that if lead was thus demonstrably changed into silver, and copper into iron, it was, to say the least, extremely probable that any metal might be changed into any other provided the proper means for producing the change could be discovered.

But the experimental alchemist had a yet stranger transmutation wherewith to convince the most sceptical. He poured mercury in a fine stream on to melted sulphur; at once the mercury and the sulphur disappeared, and in their place was found a solid substance black as the raven's wing. He then heated this black substance in a closed vessel, when it also disappeared, and in its place there was found, deposited on the cooler part of the vessel, a brilliantly red-coloured solid. This experiment taught lessons alike to the alchemist, the philosopher, and the moralist of these times. The alchemist learned that to change one kind of matter into another was an easy task: the philosopher learned that the prevalence of change or transmutation is one of the laws of Nature: and the moralist learned that evil is not wholly evil, but contains also some germs of good; for was not the raven-black substance emblematical of the evil, and the red-coloured matter of the good principle of things?[1]

On such experimental evidence as this the building of alchemy was reared. A close relationship was believed to prevail through the whole phenomena of Nature. What more natural then than to regard the changes which occur among the forms of matter on this earth as intimately connected with the changes which occur among the heavenly bodies?

Man has ever been overawed by the majesty of the stars; yet he has not failed to notice that the movements of these bodies are apparently capricious. The moon has always been to him a type of mutability; only in the sun has he seemed to find a settled resting-point. Now, when we remember that in the alchemical scheme of things the material earth and material heavens, the intellectual, the moral, and the spiritual world were regarded as one great whole, the parts of which were continuously acting and reacting on each other, we cannot wonder that the alchemist should regard special phenomena which he observed in his laboratory, or special forms of matter which he examined, as being more directly than other phenomena or other forms of matter, under the influence of the heavenly bodies. This connection became gradually more apparent to the student of alchemy, until at last it was fixed in the language and the symbols which he employed.

Thus the sun (Sol) was represented by a circle, which likewise became the symbol for gold, as being the most perfect metal. The moon (Luna) was ever changing; she was represented by a half-circle, which also symbolized the pale metal silver.

Copper and iron were regarded as belonging to the same class of metals as gold, but their less perfect nature was denoted by the sign + or ↑. Tin and lead belonged to the lunar class, but like copper they were supposed to be imperfect metals. Mercury was at once solar and lunar in its properties.

These suppositions were summed up in such alchemical symbols as are represented below—

Many of the alchemical names remain to the present time; thus in pharmacy the name "lunar caustic" is applied to silver nitrate, and the symptoms indicative of lead-poisoning are grouped together under the designation of "saturnine cholic."

But as the times advanced the older and nobler conception of alchemy became degraded.

If it be true, the later alchemists urged, that all things suffer change, but that a changeless essence or principle underlies all changing things, and that the presence of more or less of this essence confers on each form of matter its special properties, it follows that he who can possess himself of this principle will be able to transmute any metal into any other; he will be able to change any metal into gold.

Now, as the possession of gold has always carried with it the means of living luxuriously, it is easy to understand how, when this practical aspect of alchemy had taken firm root in men's minds, the pursuit of the art became for all, except a few lofty and noble spirits, synonymous with the pursuit of wealth. So that we shall not, I think, much err if we describe the chemistry of the later Middle Ages as an effort to accumulate facts on which might be founded the art of making gold. In one respect this was an advance. In the early days of alchemy there had been too much trusting to the mental powers for the manufacture of natural facts: chemists now actually worked in laboratories; and very hard did many of these alchemists work.

Paracelsus says of the alchemists, "They are not given to idleness, nor go in a proud habit, or plush and velvet garments, often showing their rings upon their fingers, or wearing swords with silver hilts by their sides, or fine and gay gloves upon their hands; but diligently follow their labours, sweating whole days and nights by their furnaces. They do not spend their time abroad for recreation, but take delight in their laboratory. They put their fingers amongst coals, into clay and filth, not into gold rings. They are sooty and black like smiths and miners, and do not pride themselves upon clean and beautiful faces." By thus "taking delight in their laboratories" the later alchemists gathered together many facts; but their work centred round one idea, viz. that metals might all be changed into gold, and this idea was the result rather of intellectual guessing than of reasoning on established facts of Nature.

One of the most famous alchemists of the Middle Ages was born at Einsiedeln, in Switzerland, in 1493. His name, when paraphrased into Greek, became Paracelsus. This man, some of whose remarks have just been quoted, acquired great fame as a medical practitioner, and also as a lecturer on medicine: he travelled throughout the greater part of Europe, and is supposed to have been taught the use of several new medicines by the Arabian physicians whom he met in Spain. With an over-weening sense of his own powers, with an ardent and intemperate disposition, revolting against all authority in medicine or science, Paracelsus yet did a good work in calling men to the study of Nature as the only means whereby natural science could be advanced.

"Alchemy has but one aim and object," Paracelsus taught: "to extract the quintessence of things, and to prepare arcana and elixirs which may serve to restore to man the health and soundness he has lost." He taught that the visible universe is but an outer shell or covering, that there is a spirit ever at work underneath this veil of phenomena; but that all is not active: "to separate the active function (the spirit) of this outside shell from the passive" was, he said, the proper province of alchemy.

Paracelsus strongly insisted on the importance of the changes which occur when a substance burns, and in doing this he prepared the way for Stahl and the phlogistic chemists.

However we may admire the general conceptions underlying the work of the earlier alchemists, we must admit that the method of study which they adopted could lead to very few results of lasting value; and I think we may add that, however humble the speculations of these older thinkers might appear, this humility was for the most part only apparent.

These men were encompassed (as we are) by unexplained appearances: they were every moment reminded that man is not "the measure of all things;" and by not peering too anxiously into the mysteries around them, by drawing vague conclusions from partially examined appearances, they seemed at once to admit their own powerlessness and the greatness of Nature. But I think we shall find, as we proceed with our story, that this is not the true kind of reverence, and that he is the really humble student of Nature who refuses to overlook any fact, however small, because he feels the tremendous significance of every part of the world of wonders which it is his business and his happiness to explore.

As examples of the kind of explanation given by alchemists of those aspects of Nature which they professed to study, I give two quotations from translations of the writings of Basil Valentine and Paracelsus, who flourished in the first half of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries respectively.

"Think most diligently about this; often bear in mind, observe and comprehend that all minerals and metals together, in the same time, and after the same fashion, and of one and the same principal matter, are produced and generated. That matter is no other than a mere vapour, which is extracted from the elementary earth by the superior stars, or by a sidereal distillation of the macrocosm; which sidereal hot infusion, with an airy sulphureous property, descending upon inferiors, so acts and operates as that there is implanted, spiritually and invisibly, a certain power and virtue in those metals and minerals; which fume, moreover, resolves in the earth into a certain water wherefrom all metals are thenceforth generated and ripened to their perfection, and thence proceeds this or that metal or mineral, according as one of the three principles acquires dominion and they have much or little of sulphur and salt, or an unequal mixture of these; whence some metals are fixed, that is, constant or stable; and some are volatile and easily changeable, as is seen in gold, silver, copper, iron, tin and lead."

"The life of metals is a secret fatness; of salts, the spirit of aqua fortis; of pearls, their splendour; of marcasites and antimony, a tingeing metalline spirit; of arsenics, a mineral and coagulated poison. The life of all men is nothing else but an astral balsam, a balsamic impression, and a celestial invisible fire, an included air, and a tingeing spirit of salt. I cannot name it more plainly, although it is set out by many names."

When the alchemists gave directions for making the stone which was to turn all it touched into gold, they couched them in such strange and symbolical language as this: "After our serpent has been bound by her chain, penetrated with the blood of our green dragon, and driven nine or ten times through the combustible fire into the elementary air, if you do not find her to be exceeding furious and extremely penetrating, it is a sign that you do not hit our subject, the notion of the homogenea, or their proportion; if this furious serpent does not come over in a cloud and turn into our virgin milk, or argentine water, not corrosive at all and yet insensibly and invisibly devouring everything that comes near it, it is plainly to be seen that you err in the notion of our universal menstruum." Or, again, what could any reasonable man make of this? "In the green lion's bed the sun and moon are born; they are married and beget a king. The king feeds on the lion's blood, which is the king's father and mother, who are at the same time his brother and sister. I fear I betray the secret, which I promised my master to conceal in dark speech from any one who knows not how to rule the philosopher's fire."

Concerning the same lion, another learned author says that "though called a lion, it is not an animal substance, but for its transcendant force, and the rawness of its origin, it is called the green lion." But he adds in a moment of confidence: "This horrid beast has so many names, that unless God direct the searcher it is impossible to distinguish him."

And once more. "Take our two serpents, which are to be found everywhere on the face of the earth: tie them in a love-knot and shut them up in the Arabian caraha. This is the first labour; but the next is more difficult. Thou must encamp against them with the fire of nature, and be sure thou dost bring thy line round about. Circle them in and stop all avenues that they find no relief. Continue this siege patiently, and they turn into an ugly venomous black toad, which will be transformed to a horrible devouring dragon, creeping and weltering in the bottom of her cave without wings. Touch her not by any means, for there is not on earth such a vehement transcending poison. As thou hast begun so proceed, and this dragon will turn into a swan. Henceforth I will show thee how to fortify thy fire till the phœnix appear: it is a red bird of a most deep colour, with a shining fiery hue. Feed this bird with the fire of his father and the ether of his mother: for the first is meat and the second is drink, and without this last he attains not to his full glory. Be sure to understand this secret," etc., etc.

The alchemists spoke of twelve gates through which he who would attain to the palace of true art must pass: these twelve gates were to be unlocked by twelve keys, descriptions of which, couched in strange and symbolical language, were given in alchemical treatises. Thus in "Ripley reviv'd"[2] we read that Canon Ripley, of Bridlington, who lived in the time of Edward IV., sang thus of the first gate, which was "Calcination:"—

"The battle's fought, the conquest won,

The Lyon dead reviv'd;

The eagle's dead which did him slay,

And both of sense depriv'd. The showers cease, the dews which fell For six weeks do not rise; The ugly toad that did so swell With swelling bursts and dies."

And of the third gate, or "Conjunction," we find the Canon saying—

"He was a king, yet dead as dead could be;

His sister a queen,

Who when her brother she did breathless see,

The like was never seen,

She cryes

Until her eyes

With over-weeping were waxed dim—

So long till her tears

Reach'd up to her ears:

The queen sunk, but the king did swim."

In some books these gates and keys are symbolically represented in drawings, e.g. in a pamphlet by Paracelsus, called "Tripus Aureus, hoc est Tres Tractates chymici selectissimi." (Frankfurt, 1618.)

It is evident that a method of studying Nature which resulted in such dim and hazy explanations as these was eminently fitted to produce many who pretended to possess secrets by the use of which they could bring about startling results beyond the power of ordinary men; and, at the same time, the almost universal acceptance of such statements as those I have quoted implied the existence in men generally of a wondrous readiness to believe anything and everything. Granted that a man by "sweating whole days and nights by his furnaces" can acquire knowledge which gives him great power over his fellows, it necessarily follows that many will be found ready to undergo these days and nights of toil. And when we find that this supposed knowledge is hidden under a mask of strange and mystical signs and language, we may confidently assert that there will be many who learn to repeat these strange terms and use these mystical signs without attempting to penetrate to the truths which lie behind—without, indeed, believing that the mystical machinery which they use has any real meaning at all.

We find, as a matter of fact, that the age of the alchemists produced many deceivers, who, by mumbling incantations and performing a few tricks, which any common conjuror would now despise, were able to make crowds of men believe that they possessed a supernatural power to control natural actions, and, under this belief, to make them part with their money and their substance.

One respectable physician of the Hague, who entertained a peripatetic alchemist, complains that the man entered his "best-furnished room without wiping his shoes, although they were full of snow and dirt." However, the physician was rewarded, as the stranger gave him, "out of his philosophical commiseration, as much as a turnip seed in size" of the much-wished-for stone of wisdom.

That the alchemist of popular belief was a man who used a jargon of strange and high-sounding words, that he might the better deceive those whom he pretended to help, is evident from the literature of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.

In the play of the "Alchymist" Ben Jonson draws the character of Subtle as that of a complete scoundrel, whose aim is to get money from the pockets of those who are stupid enough to trust him, and who never hesitates to use the basest means for this end. From the speeches of Subtle we may learn the kind of jargon employed by the men who pretended that they could cure diseases and change all baser metals into gold.

"Subtle. Name the vexations and the martyrizations of metals in the work.

Face. Sir, putrefaction, Solution, ablution, sublimation, Cohobation, calcination, ceration, and Fixation.

Sub. And when comes vivification?

Face. After mortification.

Sub. What's cohobation?

Face. 'Tis the pouring on Your aqua regis, and then drawing him off, To the trine circle of the seven spheres.

Sub. And what's your mercury?

Face. A very fugitive; he will be gone, sir.

Sub. How know you him?

Pace. By his viscosity, His oleosity, and his suscitability."

Even in the fourteenth century, Chaucer (in the "Canon's Yeoman's Tale") depicts the alchemist as a mere cunning knave. A priest is prevailed on to give the alchemist money, and is told that he will be shown the change of base metal into gold. The alchemist busies himself with preparations, and sends the priest to fetch coals.

"And whil he besy was, this feendly wrecche,

This false chanoun (the foule feende him fecche)

Out of his bosom took a bechen cole

In which ful subtilly was maad an hole,

And therein put was of silver lymayle

An unce, and stopped was withoute fayle

The hole with wex, to keep the lymayle in.

And understondith, that this false gyn

Was not maad there, but it was maad before."

This "false gyn" having been put in the crucible and burned with the rest of the ingredients, duly let out its "silver lymayle" (filings), which appeared in the shape of a small button of silver, and so accomplished the "false chanoun's" end of deceiving his victim.

The alchemists accumulated many facts: they gained not a little knowledge concerning the appearances of Nature, but they were dominated by a single idea. Living in the midst of an extremely complex order of things, surrounded by a strange and apparently capricious succession of phenomena, they were convinced that the human intelligence, directed and aided by the teachings of the Church, would guide them through the labyrinth. And so they entered on the study of Nature with preconceived notions and foregone conclusions: enthusiastic and determined to know although many of them were, they nevertheless failed because they refused to tread the only path which leads to true advances in natural science—the path of unprejudiced accurate experiment, and of careful reasoning on experimentally determined facts.

And even when they had become convinced that their aims were visionary, they could not break free from the vicious system which bound them.

" … I am broken and trained

To my old habits: they are part of me.

I know, and none so well, my darling ends

Are proved impossible: no less, no less,

Even now what humours me, fond fool, as when

Their faint ghosts sit with me and flatter me,

And send me back content to my dull round."[3]

One of the most commonly occurring and most noticeable changes in the properties of matter is that which proceeds when a piece of wood, or a candle, or a quantity of oil burns. The solid wood, or candle, or the liquid oil slowly disappears, and this disappearance is attended with the visible formation of flame. Even the heavy fixed metals, tin or lead, may be caused to burn; light is produced, a part of the metal seems to disappear, and a white (or reddish) solid, very different from the original metal, remains. The process of burning presents all those peculiarities which are fitted to strike an observer of the changes of Nature; that is, which are fitted to strike a chemist—for chemistry has always been recognized as having for its object to explain the changes which matter undergoes. The chemists of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries were chiefly occupied in trying to explain this process of burning or combustion.

Van Helmont (1577–1644), who was a physician and chemist of Brussels, clearly distinguished between common air and other "airs" or gases produced in different ways. Robert Hooke (1635–1703), one of the original Fellows of the Royal Society, in the "Micographia, or Philosophical Description of Minute Bodies," published in 1665, concluded from the results of numerous experiments that there exists in common air a peculiar kind of gas, similar to, or perhaps identical with the gas or air which is got by heating saltpetre; and he further supposed that when a solid burns, it is dissolved by (or we should now say, it is converted into a gas by combining with) this peculiar constituent of the air.

John Mayow (1645–1679), a physician of Oxford, experimented on the basis of facts established by Hooke. He showed that when a substance, e.g. a candle, burns in air, the volume of air is thereby lessened. To that portion of the air which had dissolved the burned substance he gave the name of nitre-air, and he argued that this air exists in condensed form in nitre, because sulphur burns when heated with nitre in absence of common air. Mayow added the most important fact—a fact which was forgotten by many later experimenters—that the solid substance obtained by burning a metal in air weighs more than the metal itself did before burning. He explained this increase in weight by saying that the burning metal absorbs particles of "nitre-air" from the atmosphere. Thus Hooke and Mayow had really established the fact that common air consists of more than one definite kind of matter—in other words, that common air is not an element; but until recent times the term "element" or "elementary principle" was used without any definite meaning. When we say that the ancients and the alchemists recognized four elements—earth, air, fire, and water—we do not attach to the word "element" the same definite meaning as when we now say, "Iron is an element."

From earth, air, fire and water other substances were obtained; or it might be possible to resolve other substances into one or more of these four. But even to such a word as "substance" or "matter" no very definite meaning could be attached. Although, therefore, the facts set forth by Hooke and Mayow might now justify the assertion that air is not an element, they did not, in the year 1670, necessarily convey this meaning to men's minds. The distinction between element and compound was much more clearly laid down by the Hon. Robert Boyle (1627–1691), whose chemical work was wonderfully accurate and thorough, and whose writings are characterized by acute scientific reasoning. We shall again return to these terms "element" and "compound."

But the visible and striking phenomenon in most processes of burning is the production of light and sometimes of flame. The importance of the fact that the burned substance (when a solid) weighs more than the unburned substance was overshadowed by the apparent importance of the outward part of the process, which could scarcely be passed over by any observer. There appears to be an outrush of something from the burning substance. There is an outrush of something, said Becher and Stahl, and this something is the "principle of fire." The principle of fire, they said, is of a very subtle nature; its particles, which are always in very rapid motion, can penetrate any substance, however dense. When metals burn—the argument continued—they lose this principle of fire; when the burned metal—or calx as it was usually called—is heated with charcoal it regains this "principle," and so the metal is re-formed from the calx.

Thus arose the famous theory of phlogiston (from Greek, = "burned"), which served as a central nucleus round which all chemical facts were grouped for nearly a hundred years.

John Joachim Becher was born at Speyer in 1635, and died in 1682; in his chemical works, the most important of which is the "Physica Subterranea," he retained the alchemical notion that the metals are composed of three "principles"—the nitrifiable, the combustible, and the mercurial—and taught that during calcination the combustible and mercurial principles are expelled, while the nitrifiable remains in the calx.

George Ernest Stahl—born at Anspach in 1660, and died at Berlin in 1734—had regard chiefly to the principles which escape during the calcination of metals, and simplifying, and at the same rendering more definite the idea of Becher, he conceived and enunciated the theory of phlogiston.

But if something (name it "phlogiston" or call it by any other name you please) is lost by a metal when the metal is burned, how is it that the loss of this thing is attended with an increase in the weight of the matter which loses it? Either the theory of phlogiston must be abandoned, or the properties of the thing called phlogiston must be very different from those of any known kind of matter.

Stahl replied, phlogiston is a "principle of levity;" the presence of phlogiston in a substance causes that substance to weigh less than it did before it received this phlogiston.

In criticizing this strange statement, we must remember that in the middle of the seventeenth century philosophers in general were not firmly convinced of the truth that the essential character of matter is that it possesses weight, nor of the truth that it is impossible to destroy or to create any quantity of matter however small. It was not until the experimental work of Lavoisier became generally known that chemists were convinced of these truths. Nevertheless, the opponents of the Stahlian doctrine were justified in asking for further explanations—in demanding that some other facts analogous to this supposed fact, viz. that a substance can weigh less than nothing, should be experimentally established.

The phlogistic theory however maintained its ground; we shall find that it had a distinct element of truth in it, but we shall also find that it did harm to scientific advance. This theory was a wide and sweeping generalization from a few facts; it certainly gave a central idea around which some facts might be grouped, and it was not very difficult, by slightly cutting down here and slightly adding there, to bring many new discoveries within the general theory.

We now know that in order to explain the process of combustion much more accurate knowledge was required than the chemists of the seventeenth century possessed; but we ought to be thankful to these chemists, and notably to Stahl, that they did not hesitate to found a generalization on the knowledge they had. Almost everything propounded in natural science has been modified as man's knowledge of nature has become wider and more accurate; but it is because the scientific student of nature uses the generalizations of to-day as stepping-stones to the better theories of to-morrow, that science grows "from more to more."

Looking at the state of chemistry about the middle of the eighteenth century, we find that the experiments, and especially the measurements, of Hooke and Mayow had laid a firm basis of fact concerning the process of combustion, but that the phlogistic theory, which appeared to contradict these facts, was supreme; that the existence of airs, or gases, different from common air was established, but that the properties of these airs were very slightly and very inaccurately known; that Boyle had distinguished element from compound and had given definite meanings to these terms, but that nevertheless the older and vaguer expression, "elementary principle," was generally used; and lastly, that very few measurements of the masses of the different kinds of matter taking part in chemical changes had yet been made.