How the occult gave birth to science

Ancient scientists were interested in everything – from mermaids to alchemy.

In 1936, economist John Maynard Keynes acquired a treasure trove of Isaac Newton's unpublished notes. It ran to over 100,000 words about the great physicist's secret alchemical experiments. Keynes, shocked and dumbfounded, called them “entirely magical and completely devoid of scientific value.” This unexpected discovery, combined with things like Newton's obsession with finding coded messages in the biblical Book of David, showed that Newton “was not the first in the age of reason,” Keynes concluded. “He was the last of the magicians.”

Newton was hardly alone in his fascination with the occult. Many modern scholars may be dubious of spells, mythical tales, and divinatory powers. But this was not the case with many of the early modern thinkers who laid the foundations of modern science. For them, the world was teeming with the supernatural: witches, unicorns, mermaids, stars that foretold the future, base metals that could be turned into gold or distilled into elixirs of eternal life.

These fantastical beliefs were shared by both the illiterate and the educated elite – including many of the forerunners of modern science, including the chemist Robert Boyle, who gave us modern chemistry and Boyle's Law, and the biologist Carl Linnaeus, who developed the taxonomic system by which scientists classify species today. Rather than hindering discovery, their now archaic beliefs may have forced them and other scientists to endure hot, smoky days in the depths of alchemical laboratories or long, cold nights on the balconies of astronomy towers.

To understand the role of magic in stimulating scientific progress, we need to understand the state of education in Europe at that time. During the Middle Ages, many scientists were fixated on the idea that knowledge could only be gleaned from ancient texts. Universities taught from incomplete, often poorly translated copies of Aristotle, Ptolemy and Galen. Departing from the giants was considered a crime: in 14th-century Oxford, scientists could be charged 5 shillings for contradicting Aristotle. Curiosity was considered a sin on a par with lust. To get rid of ancient thinking, a powerful motivator was needed.

One of the first influential thinkers to break with old traditions was the 16th-century Swiss-German physician Paracelsus. The father of toxicology, known for his pioneering use of chemicals in medicine, Paracelsus was one of the first in his time to champion the importance of experimentation and observation, a philosophy that laid the foundations of the scientific method. Paracelsus publicly burned his copies of Galen and Avicenna, showing scientists what he thought of their old books.

But what led him to such an experimental approach? Perhaps because for Paracelsus experiments were a kind of magic. His works combine scientific observation with the occult. For him, medicine, astrology and alchemy were inextricably linked – as different ways of revealing the sacred truths hidden in nature by God. Paracelsus considered himself a kind of magician, as, in his opinion, Moses and Solomon were, as Newton would become 150 years later. However, Paracelsus believed that divine knowledge can be obtained not only by studying the Holy Scriptures, but also by studying nature. The alchemical workbench, the night sky – all this was an even more reliable path to God than any old dusty textbook.

Paracelsus's quasi-scientific, quasi-magical worldview would deeply influence scientists for centuries to come. As historian Violet Moller writes in her new book, Inside the Stargazer's Palace, “To our rational, orderly 21st-century minds, the 16th-century map of knowledge appears disordered, paradoxical, and confusing: where magic was studied alongside geometry, where people obsessively searched for the philosopher's stone, and where astrology was fundamental to many areas of life.” But in this mixed pot of magic and nature, real science was born.

Take, for example, the astronomer and Danish nobleman Tycho Brahe. When he lost his nose (and nearly lost his life) in a duel, he became interested in Paracelsian medicine and astrology. At that time, scientists were encouraged to study the positions of the stars not by looking at the sky, but by looking at them in books called ephemerides. But Brahe, who regarded established scientific norms in much the same way as Paracelsus, understood that these tables were inaccurate. He devoted his life to compiling one of the most accurate and complete star catalogs of his time in Europe, while developing new observing methods and instruments – including a sextant used to measure celestial altitudes and angular distances.

Like Paracelsus, Brahe was motivated by the belief that exploring the cosmos could bring him closer to God. He was an avid follower of astrology and alchemy. In his book De Nova Stella, Brahe recorded his observations of the supernova that brought him fame – not only its position and properties, but also the storms and misfortunes that, in his opinion, the new star foreshadowed. Five years later, he observed a comet that so alarmed him that it prompted him to send a secret message to the King and Queen of Denmark, warning that “the eternal Sabbath of all creatures is approaching.”

The king and queen took astrological predictions seriously, as did many rulers of their time, who could not resist the alluring idea of ​​the wisdom granted by astrological forecasts, funding their empires with gold mined from mercury, or the promise of eternal life from the philosopher's stone. So in the era before research institutes and NSF grants, science was funded by wealthy patrons. Astrologers and alchemists were an integral part of the early modern courts.

Perhaps the most generous patron of science of all time was the Holy Roman Emperor Rudolf II. At his palace in Prague, starting in the 1570s, Rudolph hired mathematicians, astrologers, instrument makers, and up to 200 alchemists. He neglected his political duties, spending time at his own alchemical workbench or with the natural philosophers who were under his command.

The workshops in his palace were the best in the area. His “cabinet of curiosities” contained rare objects from the New World, including a “unicorn horn” (later revealed to be a narwhal tusk), which scientists were allowed to study. He patronized Brahe and the German astronomer and mathematician Johannes Kepler, showering them with wealth and funds, and kept them close to him, casting horoscopes until his death in 1612.

These investments, regardless of the occult motives of those who made them, led to real scientific progress: Alchemy led to an interest in mining and the study of minerals, to improvements in the distillation process, to the development of furnaces, ventilation systems, glass and ceramics techniques. Interest in astrology led to the creation of more advanced lenses, mirrors, astronomical equipment, and even clocks that were used to determine the timing of the stars.

Even in the 17th century, when such famous scientific organizations as the Royal Society arose, the supernatural held scientists in its power. The society's president, Newton, practiced alchemy and deciphered biblical prophecies. Respected member of the community and natural scientist Sir Kenelm Digby believed in “gun salve,” a medicine that would heal wounds when applied not to the wound itself, but to the weapon that caused it. Robert Boyle spent a lot of time researching second sight – the uncanny ability of some Scottish Highlanders to see the future. René Descartes proposed a scientific explanation for cruenation, a common belief that the corpse of a murder victim spontaneously sheds blood in the presence of the killer. William Harvey, famous for discovering the circulation of blood in the body, once dissected a toad that he mistook for a witch's familiar. In 1749, Linnaeus called on the Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences to begin hunting mermaids.

To our modern ears this may all seem rather ridiculous. But as Edward Donlick writes in The Clockwork Universe, “The world was so full of wonder that the truly scientific approach was to make no judgments about what was possible and what was not, and instead to observe and experiment.” The 17th century scientist allowed anything, as long as it could be studied experimentally.

Today we know how this story ended: belief in astrology, alchemy and witchcraft died out where empiricism and skepticism became the cornerstones of science. But perhaps the early scientists' fascination with the occult should remind us of the other ingredients of discovery: open-mindedness and curiosity. Witches, mermaids and the philosopher's stone may not have stood up to modern scrutiny, but it was curiosity about them that drove real progress and allowed early thinkers to deviate from established norms. In this sense, curiosity is a kind of magic.