nearer to approving his science. For when I first came I was a bit of
a dandy about my clothes, and now look at me, I might wear a stocking
on my head instead of a cap--and all my complexion is spoilt with
puffing away at his fire. The heat has spoilt my eyesight, and what
reward have I?--A heap of debts I shall never get quit of this side
the grave. I will tell you what we do--and it is a craft in which the
Devil has some share, and the elves more. This is the sort of recipe
we use: 'Take five or six ounces of silver, with piment, [*] bone
ash, and iron filings and grind these into fine powder. Put all
together in an earthen pot, add salt and pepper, cover with a lid and
cement with clay to make all air-tight.' Then, this is what happens.
I blow the fire, and suddenly, bang! the whole thing explodes. 'Now
how did that happen?' everyone asks. The first says it was too long
on the fire, and the next that the pot was badly made (then I
tremble, because that is my job), and another that the real fault lay
with the fire because it was oak wood and not beech, and so the talk
goes on till my master quiets them. 'We must take greater precautions
next time. These misfortunes _will_ occur in the present state of our
knowledge. Well, it's no good crying over spilt milk. Let us sweep
the floor and see if we can recover any of the ingredients, and then
we will make another attempt.'


[Footnote: Trisulphite of arsenic.]

"Such is the charm of the study. Hope springs continually and failure
only means fresh efforts. We would sell the coats off our backs for
the means to carry our work further. The philosopher's stone dances
ever before our eyes, and in rags and with the smell of brimstone
about us, we, its devotees, pursue it. In truth an alchemist has the