Text.Duchesne.1603-01.!2r/Translation

Preface

Throughout history, outstanding intellects have always emerged, dedicating their utmost care and greatest diligence to cultivating and advancing the art or discipline in which they not only sought to excel with distinction but also to surpass others. Although this pursuit is paramount and common to all—and indeed to each individual—its interpretation and opinion have been shaped by varying perspectives, leading to divergent methodologies and approaches, thereby resulting in different schools of thought.

Some have vehemently asserted that the medical sciences could be learned solely through experience. These practitioners, known in antiquity as "Empiricists," retain this designation even today. Others, seeking some shortcut in this most difficult art (which Hippocrates called long—though we more accurately term it of immense length and difficulty), attempted to reduce its components to a few key principles. However, instead of achieving the conciseness they aimed for, they introduced significant drawbacks. These individuals, styling themselves "Methodists"—a name as presumptuous in its omen as it is in its title—belonged to the Thessalian school, named after its founder Thessalus, a man of extraordinary arrogance, who did not hesitate to claim that such an art could be mastered in six months.

Rejecting both of these preceding sects with disdain, others, unwilling to rely solely on experience or to see so vast a discipline confined within narrow bounds, introduced reason as an aid to medicine. These were called "Dogmatists," a school that, if any medical sect is to be deemed noble, deserves recognition for the eminent authorities it has always upheld. The first two schools enjoyed great esteem from antiquity until the time of Galen, who, in his work On Sects, presented, examined, and refuted them. As for the third, namely his own Dogmatic school, Galen claimed to have derived it from Hippocrates, structuring it upon certain universal principles, much like how geometers use hypotheses.

These principles are as follows: all things arise from the four elements, which serve as the primary and most universal sensory principles, mixed in a specific and appropriate proportion. From the harmony of this mixture in living beings comes health, while imbalance gives rise to disease. The properties and faculties of all things stem from this mixture or from the dominance of one element. The essential form of each entity arises from a specific combination and temperature of the elements. He established four qualities: two active—heat and cold—and two passive—moisture and dryness. He deduced secondary qualities, such as tastes, odors, colors, and other sensory attributes, from these primary ones. He declared that the four bodily humors—blood, phlegm, bile, and melancholy—correspond analogically to the primary elements.

Both Galen himself and his followers, grounded in these principles, attributed the causes of all diseases and symptoms to them. Moreover, they held that the primary qualities, existing within mixed or composite bodies, possessed the power to combat illnesses. Consequently, they declared—almost as if by royal decree and thus with an unwavering and indisputable axiom—that "contraries are cured by contraries": heat by cold, moisture by dryness, and so forth. From this doctrine arose an infinite number of medicinal compositions and a vast variety of formulas, drawing materials from the realms of plants, animals, and minerals. Out of this multitude of remedies emerged the third so-called instrument of medicine, by which lost health was to be restored—namely, pharmacopoeia, or the method of preparing and dispensing medicines.

This instrument of Galenic medicine, nearly indispensable to all physicians, is employed for practical use, for favor, and—if one wishes to say so—for ostentation. It is an essential subject of study, and thus, we have undertaken this work to discuss it.

Before addressing the matter in greater detail, however, we wish to preface our discussion with a few remarks on a fourth sect—one that is new to many but, to us, most ancient, though known to only a few. This fourth sect, now considered a distinct branch of medicine, is the Spagyric school. For now, we defer a full discussion of its dignity and antiquity, as we intend to treat this subject, particularly its chief instrument, in the following chapter.

Nevertheless, we must acknowledge—and truly acknowledge—that if this sect integrates reason and experience, as auxiliary instruments, then it stands as the sovereign ruler of all medicine. The predecessors of this sect held both reason and experience in the highest regard, yet they defined their sources and foundations differently from others. They did not attribute reason to commonly known proportions of elements and mixtures, but instead sought it by directly observing and contemplating the things themselves, asserting that reason must be sought where its true fountain and origin lie. And this, they maintained, is not in external and most general elements of the world, but rather in the inherent and essential nature of bodies themselves.

Here lies the crux of divergence—this is the foundation of the Spagyric school. But what is this inherent element, which they consider the fundamental principle of all life and all medicine, will soon become clear. For now, let us add only this: that the followers of this sect have contributed to the supreme perfection of medicine—not by seeking brevity, but rather by ensuring its undeniable efficacy and, above all, by providing nature with its most desirable aid. Beyond mere preparation, refinement, dosage, and palatability—which are mere accidents—they have established the highest standard of medical practice.

Let this suffice for now. In due course, we shall expound on these matters in greater detail in our other works. At present, let us return to the Dogmatic school, whose preeminent figure is generally acknowledged to be Galen—though even he freely admitted, without any circumlocution, that his school ultimately derived from the great Hippocrates. The primary component or chief instrument of this school is pharmacopoeia, that is, the method of preparing and administering medicines, which shall be the subject of this book.

But lest we seem to approach the matter itself with "unwashed hands," as the saying goes, let us first lay down certain fundamental principles for our discussion and, in order to clarify the structure of our treatment later, anticipate a few points.

Since this discourse primarily concerns Galenic pharmacopoeia, or the preparation of common medicines, it is first necessary to establish what is meant by medicament or medicine according to Galen's definition. Then, we must examine what constituted the ancient Hermetic or balsamic medicine so that the distinction between the two is made evident to all. Next, having reconsidered the Galenic or Dogmatic method of preparation, we will classify the medicines accordingly and present the entire form of pharmacopoeia as if laid out before the eyes. Along the way, we shall indicate what ought to be approved and what rejected, inserting these judgments in their proper places. Thus, in good faith and with singular diligence, we shall undertake a reform of Galenic pharmacy in its entirety. Finally, we will enrich this work with an almost innumerable array of preparations, corrections, and specific medicines suited to curing all bodily ailments, both internal and external. Moreover, in order to make this offspring of ours more elegant, abundant, and useful, we shall embellish and illuminate it with certain chymical or spagyric adornments.

There is much disagreement among physicians concerning the term medicament or medicine. The Hermetic physicians, who follow the teachings of Hermes Trismegistus, the most illustrious and ancient of all philosophers, define it differently from the Dogmatists, who adhere to Galen. The latter, by medicine, understand an art—a discipline composed of a set of established precepts for preserving health and expelling diseases from the human body. By remedy, they mean the medium through which this is accomplished, whether a simple substance or a mixture of multiple simples.

The Hermetics, however, did not understand medicine as merely an art devised for maintaining health and repelling disease. Rather, they conceived of it as a certain essence, perceptible in nature but not immediately apparent at first sight. Instead, they held that it must be extracted from all things under the heavens through an artificial and legitimate preparation and properly administered to combat the afflictions and illnesses of the human body. They maintained that this alone deserves the name of true medicine and that only through this principle is the true physician identified.

For just as all arts take up a specific subject matter, so too does medicine—unquestionably the noblest of the arts—investigate its material with the utmost diligence, scrutinizing its nature, properties, virtues, actions, conditions, effects, and all else pertinent to it. Yet, even after gaining such knowledge, it does not stop there. Rather, it proceeds further to inquire into the appropriate preparation, the suitable means, and the proper method or process by which this material may be adapted for human use. Only after these discoveries have been made and understood is true medical art established. Physicians themselves, then, become nothing more than ministers of nature, which, as Hippocrates testifies (Epidemics, VI.5.1), is "the healer of diseases."

According to this perspective, the duty of the physician is to eradicate those deep-seated diseases that arise from within the body and its very seed, using vital and potent remedies. This is accomplished through a certain vital balsam, which forms the firm foundation of true medicine and is the genuine remedy for all diseases—provided that it is purified from all impurities and properly prepared. In other words, this vital balsam is the one and only true medicine, administered for all bodily ailments, both for preservation and for cure.

Fernelius, in his work On the Hidden Causes of Things, intuited this very concept when he attempted to prove that there exists in nature something divine and more excellent than what arises from the commonly recognized qualities of the elements. He called this an occult property. Had he truly understood its existence in nature—as the disciples of Hermes do—he would certainly not have attributed to a more divine principle something that is manifest, real, and genuinely present in nature.

The basis for his assertion derives from numerous passages in Hippocrates and Galen. Hippocrates, in his Ancient Medicine, rejected the hypotheses and foundations of the ancients—who had ascribed the causes of all diseases to heat, cold, moisture, and dryness—stating instead that all things proceed from a certain power and faculty (ἀπὸ δυνάμεων), to which he also attributes the healing of diseases. Elsewhere, he writes that heat is something divine (On Diet). Whatever Hippocrates may have meant by this, in reality, it is nothing other than the true and absolute nature of the aforementioned balsam, by whose virtue all things live, flourish, and thrive—without which they would lie dead and extinguished.

The more esoteric philosophers call this substance the fifth essence of things, the elixir, the drinkable gold, the stone, and the philosophers' heaven. Though these names vary greatly, they all refer to the same reality. It is called the fifth essence because it is something that does not result from the mere blending of the four elements but is rather something beyond them—almost a divine principle (τὸ θεῖον), whether one considers it in relation to the Creator of all things, who brought it into being, or in light of its astonishing virtues and effects, which cannot be casually attributed to an elemental body.

It is called the elixir because it is an incomparable medicine for preserving life and repelling disease. The term drinkable gold does not mean that it is made exclusively or always from gold—for it can, in fact, be derived from all things under the heavens, as shall soon be explained—but it is named thus by excellence, as it is equal in value to gold. It is referred to as the stone not in the sense of the legendary stone that transforms metals into gold—for that is an invention of avarice and the work of the greedy, not of physicians or medicine—but rather because of its perpetual and indestructible nature, or because it shares the qualities of salt. By salt, I mean the salt of life, in which all other virtues rest as on the firmest and most unyielding foundation.

It is also called the philosophers' heaven because it far surpasses the nature of the elements. And it is rightly termed balsam, for it is a certain radical nature, a source of action and fertility, by whose benefit the elements are bound together in harmonious mixture. It possesses, in its essence and power, the true and universal remedy for all diseases, the restoration of health, the renewal and preservation of bodies, and, ultimately, that which imparts vitality and the capacity for nourishment to all things in nature.

Though this substance is spiritual, celestial, invisible, and occult, and therefore subject more to reason than to the senses—so that it is rarely found in isolation—we shall nevertheless demonstrate, with certain and evident arguments and an extensive discourse, that it both exists and can be possessed by the true philosopher. We shall establish this in our book On the Hidden Nature of Things and the Mysteries of Art and soon present a most familiar example of it.

Indeed, just as corporeal things can be rendered spiritual through the aid of art, so too can spiritual things be rendered corporeal, or astral, as Paracelsus calls them. The invisible can be made visible, and those things that once lay hidden in Hippocrates’ underworld, Orpheus’ night, or Democritus’ well may now be brought to light. Likewise, things at rest may be made mobile, and vice versa.

This incorruptible balsam is found and preserved especially within the fertile seeds of things. Here, Aristotle’s dictum applies most aptly: From the corruption of one thing arises the generation of another. When a seed is cast into the earth, it, in some sense, decays or at least undergoes corruption—that is, it is digested and dissolved. Yet, its radical or balsamic substance, which previously lay dormant within a certain vital and spiritual moisture—wherein the entire power and potency of the seed resided—now emerges and reveals itself. From this alone, it becomes abundantly and unmistakably clear that the balsamic substance, which we have rightfully called incorruptible, does not perish but is rather perfected, and from it a new body is generated.

If it is evident that nature alone can accomplish such things—that by its sole operation the spiritual may be separated from the corporeal, the incorruptible from the corruptible, the invisible from the visible, and ultimately the pure from the impure—then what greater wonders may it achieve when aided by the skill and dexterity of art? Especially when we observe that something even greater and more excellent is produced in the very operations of nature itself when the proper and legitimate ministry of art is applied. This is evident in agriculture, where we prepare the soil with utmost care and enrich it with the dung and urine of animals (which contain balsamic salts) to make both the earth and the seeds more fertile.

Something similar exists in all things, and it exists in such a way that it may, through the keen industry of philosophers and true medical artisans, be extracted and brought to the highest degree of perfection and purity. This is precisely what the Hermetic physicians and philosophers, in the most proper and excellent sense, have termed medicine.

Let us now proceed to discuss in greater detail its antiquity, material, excellence, qualities, and functions.