M M ARK ORRISSON M A , O ODERN LCHEMY CCULTISM AND THE E A T MERGENCE OF TOMIC HEORY I NTRODUCTION 1. F G D A S ROM THE OLDEN AWN TO THE LCHEMICAL OCIETY 2. O C , I , T CCULT HEMISTRY NSTRUMENTATION AND THE HEOSOPHICAL S D P CIENCE OF IRECT ERCEPTION 3. C B HEMISTRY IN THE ORDERLAND 4. A A G S TOMIC LCHEMYAND THE OLD TANDARD E PILOGUE A PPENDIX B IBLIOGRAPHY I NTRODUCTION S B M A TORIES OF THE IRTH OF ODERN LCHEMY For many in the twenty-first century, the word “alchemy” conjures up images of medieval zealots rummaging through ancient books and scrolls in dark hot basements, seeking the secrets of transmutation in the dim firelight of brick furnaces and archaic laboratory equipment with strange names—athanor, horn of Hermes, cucurbite. The occult wisdom forged by these alchemists was intended to bring them immense wealth, great longevity, and spiritual purification. In spite of Enlightenment attacks upon alchemy as unscientific superstition, or merely the foolish pursuit of the self-deluded, it is now clear that alchemy was a scientifically and spiritually serious pursuit from antiquity through the Middle Ages, with roots in Egyptian metallurgy, Aristotelian philosophy of matter and form, and Jewish, Arabic, early Christian, and Hermetic sources. Alchemy was not a monolithic practice, but virtually all versions of it involved destroying the nature of a “base” metal—lead or mercury, for instance—thus reducing it to a prima materia without the specific characteristics of any element. Then, the powder of the prized “Philosopher's Stone” or some other process would instill a “nobler” essence into the substance, transmuting it into gold or silver. The physical processes of alchemy involved several stages in which the base metal would be altered through heating, distilling, and the addition of various chemicals (saltpeter, alcohol, nitric acid, and sulphuric acid, for example). These stages were often known by specific colors that would appear during their successful execution. An intricate and seemingly mysterious set of images and symbols emerged, too, in the Greek, Arabic, and medieval literatures of alchemy. These included the tail-eating serpent, Ouroboros, symbolizing the unity of the cosmos, and various images representing the stages of the “Great Work” of alchemy (e.g., the black raven for the nigredo stage or the white dove for the albedo). Alchemy moved in pharmacological directions as well, using the logic of the purification of matter to seek chemical cures for ailments—and even for aging, which would be vanquished by the fabled Elixir of Life. Just as alchemy represented the chemistry of the Middle Ages, figures such as Paracelsus (1493–1541) helped direct alchemical thinking toward the practice of medicine. By the eighteenth century, though, alchemy was under assault and largely dismissed by those supporting the rigorous scientific method and new ways of understanding matter that laid the groundwork for modern chemistry. Eighteenth- and nineteenth-century scientists pronounced alchemy's methods of reasoning and experimentation nonscientific. But, perhaps most important, they rejected alchemy's understanding of the nature of matter. Alchemy held that all the elements could be reduced to a prima materia, and then transmuted into other elements. But modern chemistry, as it emerged during the Enlightenment, came to the opposite view of the nature of matter. Culminating in John Dalton's field-defining 1808 treatise, A New System of Chemical Philosophy, modern chemistry held that atoms were the smallest particles, both indivisible and unalterable. An atom of each element was a fundamental, distinct particle (Keller 1983, 9–10). The material basis for alchemy was thus seen as nothing more than a long-held intellectual mistake, now relegated to the realm of superstition and pseudoscience. Alchemy was to reassert itself with a vengeance, though, in a most unanticipated arena at the beginning of the twentieth century. In an often quoted exchange between chemist Frederick Soddy (1877–1956) and physicist Ernest Rutherford (1871–1937) in their lab at Canada's McGill University in 1901, when they discovered that radioactive thorium was transforming into an inert gas, “Soddy recalled, ‘I was overwhelmed with something greater than joy—I cannot very well express it—a kind of exaltation.’ He blurted out, ‘Rutherford, this is transmutation!’ ‘For Mike's sake, Soddy,’ his companion shot back, ‘don't call it transmutation. They'll have our heads off as alchemists’ ” (Weart 1988, 5–6). Indeed, within a decade of the 1896 discovery of radiation by French physicist Henri Becquerel (1852–1908), the newly emerging science of radioactivity routinely generated comparisons to alchemy. The transformation that radioactive elements underwent into other elements—Rutherford and Soddy's discovery—was frequently figured as alchemical transmutation. Some even imagined the highly radioactive element radium, only discovered in 1898 by the Curies, to be a modern-day Philosopher's Stone. Moreover, the little understood effects of mysterious radiation on living tissue evoked the alchemical Elixir of Life for many. By the 1920s, atomic physics and radiochemistry were regularly called “modern alchemy” in the press. Multiple textbooks on the new subject took that name. 1 Though Rutherford was initially wary of alchemical comparisons, as the above conversation attests, even he titled his last book The Newer Alchemy (1937). But what were the origins of this alchemical emphasis? Why would rigorously trained scientists such as Soddy, Sir William Ramsay, and others, working in the most modern laboratories available to chemistry and physics, have so quickly turned to alchemy to imagine the nature and implications of the changes they witnessed in radioactive elements? Investigating why the latest in cutting-edge science was cast in terms of a discredited earlier knowledge, one seemingly reduced to the status of a pre-Enlightenment occult relic, offers fascinating insights into the boundaries between science, religion, and other areas of culture at the beginning of the twentieth century. Indeed, to understand how the science of radioactivity came to be so tied to alchemical tropes and images, we must turn to an apparently unscientific phenomenon: the major fin-de-siиcle revival of interest in alchemy and esoteric religion. Stunning landmarks of atomic science occurred alongside an efflorescence of occultism that ascribed deep significance to questions about the nature of matter and energy. And perhaps more surprisingly, the broad alchemical revival had an impact on the way some scientists understood and portrayed their research programs. 2 This book will explore the ways in which the alchemical revival in occult circles obliquely helped inform, and was in turn profoundly shaped by, the emerging science of radioactivity and radioactive transformation. S M A TORIES OF ODERN LCHEMY But how should we tell such a story? As with most narratives, the history of the birth of modern atomic science could be told in any number of ways. Historians of science generally tell it by chronicling key discoveries and the experiments and theoretical imperatives that produced them. Such an account tends to emphasize theoretical breakthroughs and laboratory triumphs, and, in outline, would unfold something like this. In November 1895, while passing electric current through a cathode ray tube (a glass tube evacuated of most of its air) shielded by heavy black cardboard, German physicist Wilhelm Rцntgen (1845–1923) discovers mysterious rays that can pass through flesh and wood, even producing photographic images of the bones inside his wife's hand. He names them “X-rays” because of their unknown nature. A few months later, in February 1896, Becquerel finds, quite by chance, that the uranium potassium sulphate crystals that he had placed on photographic plates in a drawer give off rays of their own. Marie Curie (1867–1934) soon names this phenomenon “radioactivity.” Marie and her husband Pierre Curie (1859–1906) show that thorium, too, is radioactive, and go on to discover new radioactive elements—including the highly radioactive radium in 1898. Becquerel and the Curies share the Nobel Prize in physics in 1903, initiating a long series of Nobel Prizes to be awarded to the pioneers of atomic physics. In 1897, at the Cavendish Laboratory at Cambridge University, British physicist J. J. Thomson (1856–1940) seeks to explain the workings of those cathode ray tubes that preoccupied Rцntgen and several other physicists. Thomson shows that the mysterious cathode rays are, in fact, made of negatively charged particles, for which he uses a name coined by physicist Johnstone Stoney: electrons. In February 1897 before his colleagues at Cambridge, and in April before the Royal Institution of Great Britain (the oldest independent research institution in the world), Thomson strikingly argues against the Daltonian understanding of atoms of each element as fundamental particles. Atoms are not indivisible, but, he argues, have negatively charged particles, called electrons, that can be torn from them. These particles all have the same mass and charge, and they have less than a thousandth of the mass of a hydrogen atom, the least massive atom. In 1904, Thomson goes on to propose his “plum pudding” model of the atom, in which negatively charged electrons dwell in a positively charged fluid orb. Meanwhile, in a lab at Canada's McGill University, Rutherford, who had studied with Thomson at Cambridge, and Soddy, a young Oxford-trained chemist, reveal the mechanism of radioactivity in 1901 and 1902. They show that the radioactive elements disintegrate, releasing radioactivity and transforming into other elements in the process. Several years later, back in England at the University of Manchester, Rutherford observes the scattering of alpha particles (consisting of two protons and two neutrons, essentially a helium nucleus, emitted by uranium or radium) bombarding thin foils. From this experiment, he develops a model of the atom: a positively charged nucleus around which electrons orbit. Stunningly, Rutherford's model suggests that atoms are overwhelmingly composed of empty space. In 1913, the Danish physicist Niels Bohr (1885–1962) sees problems in Rutherford's model and refines it to suggest that electrons exist only in specific states. He uses Planck's constant, formulated by German physicist Max Planck, to explain the stability that these states confer on atoms. In 1919, Rutherford—now director of the Cavendish Lab at Cambridge—discovers the positively charged particle, the proton, in the atom's nucleus. But his assistant director at the Cavendish, James Chadwick, is troubled by the discrepancy between the atomic number of an atom (the number of protons in the nucleus) and its atomic mass. In 1932, Chadwick discovers the neutron, a neutral particle that contributes to an atom's mass but not to its atomic number. Meanwhile, in 1923 and 1924 the French physicist Louis de Broglie (1892–1987) uses Einstein's theory that photons (the basic entities of electromagnetic radiation) exhibit properties of both waves and particles, to suggest that electrons, too, have the same dual properties. De Broglie argues that electrons should not be thought of as localized particles in space around a nucleus, but rather as something like a cloud of negative charge. Following de Broglie's theories, Austrian physicist Erwin Schrцdinger (1887–1961) develops an equation allowing him to predict the future behavior of electrons. German physicist Max Born (1882–1970) uses the wave function of electrons to calculate the possibility of finding a particle at a specific region at a specific time. Niels Bohr and German physicist Werner Heisenberg (1901–1976) begin working on quantum mechanics in 1924, and, in 1927, Heisenberg propounds his uncertainty principle—the theory that one cannot simultaneously know a particle's exact position and velocity. An outline of discoveries like this provides one view of the nascence of nuclear physics and quantum mechanics. We could extend the narrative through the early twenty-first century to describe the ever-expanding stable of subatomic particles (many predicted by theory and then confirmed by particle accelerators), the emergence of high-energy particle physics, the birth of atomic warfare and atomic energy in civilian life, the advent of string and super-string theory, and more. Writing the history of science in this way would draw particular attention to a chain of problem-solving physicists, each of whom constructed successful experiments to explain a physical phenomenon or to correct problems in another physicist's formulation. (Rutherford's nuclear model of the atom corrected Thomson's plum pudding model, for instance, just as Bohr's atom solved problems in Rutherford's. Notably, each of these two cases represents a student's correction of his former teacher.) A more lengthy study would add greater complexity to the simplified narrative above. It would go into the details of the experiments themselves, the history of fields of scientific inquiry—such as electromagnetism and ether physics—that led up to the discoveries of the 1890s, the importance of international exchanges among scientists and their working partnerships, and the theoretical necessities or inconsistencies that sparked revisions of theories and further laboratory experiments. 3 It would also show that not everyone working in the field was a physicist. Chemist Sir William Crookes's 1875 experiments with cathode rays showed that they were deflectable by a magnet, and hence were not light. Frederick Soddy, along with Rutherford, made crucial contributions to work on radioactive transformation. He also originated our basic understanding of isotopes, for which he won the 1921 Nobel Prize in chemistry. This more extensive narrative of scientific progress in the field would discuss the importance of chemist Sir William Ramsay's discovery of helium (which he and Soddy definitively identified as the mystery gas produced in radioactive decay) and other inert atmospheric gases, which earned him the Nobel in chemistry in 1904. Such a history of nuclear physics would be enhanced by an account of the role of its key instruments—the Geiger counter, scintillation counter, cloud chamber, cyclotron, bubble chamber, and the like—that Peter Galison has offered in Image and Logic: A Material Culture of Microphysics (1997). The strength of the standard history of science based upon key discoveries, experiments, and theoretical innovations is the clarity with which it can portray the relations among successful experiments and breakthroughs that advanced the science. The history of atomic science might also be approached through the cultural history of its public reception. This kind of study would rely not on the annals of scientific journals and laboratory experiments but instead on the images atomic science inspired in popular culture and in scientists' aspirations for it. Spencer Weart's sweeping volume Nuclear Fear: A History of Images (1988) presents just such a cultural history. It plumbs the archives of newspapers, science fiction pulp magazines, popular science journals, government propaganda, and other sources to trace the history of images from nuclear physics' early years through the Cold War. Weart charts a complicated terrain of fears and hopes for nuclear energy that run from the “white city of the future,” the alchemical Elixir of Life and Philosopher's Stone, and other positive images to their opposite: horrific doomsday fears, anxieties about monsters, rays, dangerous scientists, and, of course, nuclear annihilation. Yet the resurrection of alchemical tropes at the birth of modern atomic science demands a third version of the story. Weart notes that the word “transmutation” offered “a clue that could help explain almost every strange image that would later appear in nuclear energy tales” (6). In order to understand fully the relationships between alchemical transmutation and the science of radioactivity, I take a path that branches off from both the traditional history of scientific discovery and the image history that Weart provides. In Modern Alchemy, I reconstruct the history of how scientific knowledge was produced and how it was elaborated in a broader cultural and spiritual context. That is, I look at science, its public elaboration, and its spiritual 4 dimensions as mutually interacting realms, and tell a story of how science and occultism were entwined. Modern Alchemy offers the first sustained exploration of the relationships between a thriving occult alchemical revival and what by the 1920s had widely come to be known as the “modern alchemy” of atomic science. It chronicles the surprisingly inter-connected pursuits of occultists and atomic scientists around the emergence of radiochemistry and nuclear physics as new scientific fields. Let me make the limits of my argument clear from the beginning, though. I am not arguing for a symmetrical influence between occultists and the scientists who created modern atomic science. Other than Sir William Crookes, none of the scientists whose work I explore were members of occult groups—not even Ramsay or Soddy, who contributed the most to the alchemical figuration of the early discoveries in the field of radioactivity (though Ramsay was a member of an organization that investigated what we would now call paranormal phenomena). While occultists were carefully scanning scientific journals and books for information on radioactivity and subatomic particles to support their claims for occult alchemy, there is no evidence that the chemists (again, other than Crookes) were reading the occult periodicals. Instead, I will show that the broad revival of interest in alchemy in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries (that included occultists, non-occult historians of chemistry, educators, journalists, and scientists alike) gave chemistry a trope that influenced its public reception and its sense of its own identity and that contributed to its early understanding and portrayal of radioactivity's significance. The chapters focus on key moments in the developing relationship between occultism and the science of atomic transmutation primarily in the Anglophone West. Though the work that launched the fields of nuclear physics and radiochemistry spanned several countries, many crucial early discoveries about the transmutability of the elements were made in Britain, Canada, and the United States. Rutherford and Soddy's 1901–1902 experiments demonstrating radioactive “transmutation” at McGill were central to the emerging importance of alchemical tropes, as were Soddy and Ramsay's confirmations in London that helium was created in the transmutation. Ramsay's own efforts to transmute an element artificially, first published in 1907, initiated a frenzy of alchemical aspirations, as did Rutherford's 1919 successful artificial transmutation of nitrogen at the Cavendish Lab. Ernest O. Lawrence's early work with cyclotrons at the University of California at Berkeley in the 1930s was also crucial. Ramsay and Soddy's lectures, books, and articles aimed at the broader public made alchemical interpretations of the new science of intense interest in Britain and the United States. Moreover, Britain and America both had thriving occult movements during the period that positioned alchemy as one of the most important Hermetic sciences. Their translations and numerous publications of key alchemical texts helped launch new histories of chemistry that included chapters on alchemy and fueled the broader public interest in the subject. Thus, while Modern Alchemy explores international dimensions of its subject, it focuses specifically on Britain and America, where boundaries carefully erected between the sciences and occultism across the nineteenth century became more noticeably permeable. Even boundaries between the sciences of chemistry and physics, and between those sciences and economics, were blurred by the presence of alchemy as a trope or even as a religious belief guiding the new understanding of matter and energy. 5 In chapter 1, the interests of occult alchemists and mainstream chemists combine in the founding of the Alchemical Society in London in 1912. The mid-nineteenth-century occult understanding of alchemy as primarily about spiritual transformation (so-called spiritual alchemy) and not material transmutation was supplanted by an increasing certitude that ancient and medieval alchemy had always been a material process, though one with spiritual implications. Reciprocally, scientists in the Alchemical Society came to see the relevance and even spiritual significance of alchemy to modern atomic science. Chapter 2 tells how the close relationship between Theosophical theories of matter and the new atomic science led Theosophists to launch, in 1895, a decades-long research program of “clairvoyant chemistry.” (This research continued across the twentieth century: It has even occupied recent and contemporary scientists with doctoral degrees in chemistry and physics.) In chapter 3 I describe a “transmutational gold rush” between 1904 and the 1920s. Academic chemists, portraying their work in terms provided by the alchemy revival, attempted to transmute elements—and, yes, even to make gold. By the 1920s, these blendings of atomic science and occult alchemy begin to affect still other domains of knowledge, particularly those of economics and monetary policy, eventually inspiring concerns about the gold standard in the 1920s and '30s. Chapter 4 traces the influence of alchemy on debates over monetary theory. It also charts the rise of science fiction that imagined the dire economic consequences of synthetic gold during Britain's arguments over the gold standard and during the banking and currency reforms of the first FDR administration in America. Scientists and science writers did not merely turn to occult notions to help describe or even inspire their research. As Modern Alchemy demonstrates, during the period from the turn of the century to just before World War II, the trajectories of science and occultism briefly merged. The stories told here document how and why the nature of matter was so newly important to both scientists and occultists—and they uncover the spiritual and ethical implications of the new material science of radioactivity. T A R “M A ” R HE LCHEMICAL EVIVALAND THE ODERN LCHEMY OF ADIOACTIVITY Alchemy played a crucial role in the practice and beliefs of Hermetic societies, such as the now famous Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn and its various international offshoots. It also permeated the teachings of the Theosophical Society, with its merging of Eastern and Western occult traditions and religious beliefs. In short, the West witnessed an alchemical renaissance in the 1880s that gained momentum by the turn of the century. As we shall see in chapter 3, histories of alchemy—and histories of chemistry that took alchemy as a starting point, even if they dismissed it as science—began to proliferate during this period. But at the same time, and not coincidentally, the occult revival privileged alchemy as a source of deep spiritual and even scientific wisdom. Alchemical texts began to circulate in every conceivable form. Hand-written alchemical treatises were secretly copied and passed among initiates of the Golden Dawn and similar Hermetic orders. Limited-circulation and commercially unviable books were written or translated by occultists and mystics such as A. E. Waite, whose alchemical translations and publications with the publisher James Elliott during the mid-1890s were bankrolled by Fitzherbert Edward Stafford-Jerningham, Lord Stafford, who had taken a great interest in alchemy. Broader circulation books were published by occult publishers such as Rider and Sons and Phillip Wellby in Britain, David McKay in America, and the Theosophical Publishing House in Madras. Books on alchemy brought out by mainstream publishers such as Longmans, Green in the United Kingdom, and Appleton in the United States reached even larger audiences. Moreover, a flourishing occult periodical press, including dozens of Theosophical and Hermetic journals across Europe and North America, published numerous articles on alchemy. Tellingly, Waite launched his eclectic occult journal Unknown World in 1894 with an article on alchemy. Even the mass market newspapers began to run stories on efforts at alchemical transmutation, and their books pages reviewed new histories of alchemy. Societies dedicated to exploring alchemy also began to emerge, including La Sociйtй Alchimique de France in Paris, which was run by the practicing alchemist Franзois Jollivet- Castelot. The Alchemical Society in London was headed by H. Stanley Redgrove, an academic chemist with a degree from the University of London, and John Ferguson, the Regius Professor of Chemistry at the University of Glasgow. But until the discovery of radioactive “transmutation” by Rutherford and Soddy, many outside of occult circles were content to view alchemy as simply an interesting, unscientific, and wrongheaded ancestor of chemistry. Even occultists often emphasized that alchemy was really a process of spiritual development, of self-transmutation. The chemical symbols and processes described in ancient and medieval alchemical texts, they asserted, secretly stood for nonphysical processes. After Rutherford and Soddy's 1902 publication, such attitudes changed dramatically. Even religious skeptics began to wonder if the alchemists might have understood something about the nature of matter that nineteenth-century scientists had missed. Could radium have been the fabled Philosopher's Stone, capable of causing transmutations, or perhaps the legendary Elixir of Life, which could rejuvenate living tissue and extend life for hundreds or even thousands of years? Fellows of the Royal Society and Nobel Prize-winning scientists turned to alchemical tropes to emphasize the mutability of the elements, and, for some, to bring a spiritual dimension to their works. Scientific certitude about the fundamental composition of the material world was put to the test; the origins of scientific hypotheses and scientific authority were scrutinized anew. The Daltonian foundation of chemistry was, of course, antithetical to the alchemical premise that the elements were transmutable. But the new science of radioactivity had superseded Dalton and began to suggest, even to scientists, that the bases of alchemy and those of the new chemistry were not mutually exclusive. Occultists, then, increasingly focused on alchemy as a material science validated by the new atomic chemistry and physics, even if it was a science with spiritual implications. Many occult phenomena now began to be explained in terms of radiation and material particles as occultists turned to scientists to validate their belief. 6 Never had modern occultism been so much concerned with the nature of matter—that is, the nature of material change. To understand this development in the relationship between occultism and material science, we must first briefly rehearse the history of the broad occult movement beginning half a century earlier. S S : T O R ETTING THE CENE HE CCULT EVIVAL By the 1840s, Western Europe and North America were seeing the beginnings of what would become a major revival of interest in Western esotericism and occultism. Though many of the key ideas of the revival were centuries old, they took on modern guises. Even the phrase “Western esotericism” only dates from the beginning of the nineteenth century (Faivre 1994, 5), and “occultism” appeared even later, perhaps first in Jean-Baptiste Richard de Randonvilliers' Dictionnaire des mots nouveaux (1842). French magus Йliphas Lйvi popularized the term in his Dogme et ritual de la haute magie from 1856. In 1875 H. P. Blavatsky, the founder of the Theosophical Society and a key conduit of Eastern religious ideas into Western esotericism, spread the word through English-speaking countries (Hanegraaff 2005, 887). These new words helped key figures of the revival create new syntheses of ideas from the past (or the imagined past). Antoine Faivre has usefully identified four characteristics intrinsic to Western esotericism: (1) a belief in “symbolic and real correspondences ... among all parts of the universe, both seen and unseen”; (2) a sense of a “Living Nature,” of all nature as animated by a life energy or divinity; (3) an understanding that the religious creative imagination can explore unknown realms between the material world and the divine; and (4) a belief in the “experience of transmutation,” of the spiritual transmutation of the inner man, who is connected with the divine (Faivre 1994, 10–14). Beyond these four characteristics, two others are often present that were highly significant to the occultists of the fin de siиcle: (1) a belief in the “praxis of concordance,” the fundamental concordance between multiple spiritual traditions—that is, a “primordial Tradition”—and (2) an emphasis on the careful passing on of knowledge suggesting that “an esoteric teaching can or must be transmitted from master to disciple following a preestablished channel, respecting a previously marked path” (14). While one would not want to reduce Western esotericism to Faivre's schema, it is clear that by the mid-nineteenth century, much of the West was experiencing a revival of beliefs like those described by Faivre—beliefs that might previously have been relegated to the dustbin of pre-Enlightenment history. This revival of interest in all things occult took many different forms. But by the turn of the century, many recognizable manifestations of Western esotericism flourished on both sides of the Atlantic. Mesmerism and spiritualism were two early progenitors of the occult revival, and, by later in the century, Theosophy and a number of secret (or not so secret) Hermetic and Rosicrucian societies dedicated to alchemy and ritual magic had become significant cultural forces. M ESMERISM Mesmerism had been conceived by the German physician Franz Anton Mesmer (1734–1815) as a medical practice. He attempted to use magnets and then simply his own hands and will to amplify what he saw as a kind of “fluid” that connects all beings and things to each other. He also tried to heal disease by increasing this fluid's circulation in the patient's body and by transferring his fluid to his patient via an act of his own will. (He named his discovery “animal magnetism.”) While the popularity of mesmerism had waned by the late eighteenth century, it was reborn in France after 1815 through the work of the Marquis de Puysйgur, and it remained prominent in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries in Germany. It spread to Britain and the United States in the 1830s, enjoying considerable interest through the 1860s. Yet mesmerism was not just a phenomenon of psychological and physiological healing. Its altered state of consciousness—or somnambulistic trance—also was seen by many to confer such occult faculties as clairvoyance, the ability to speak with the dead, and the power to predict the future. From the 1830s through the 1850s, many examples of such feats became press sensations. Mesmerized clairvoyants searched for the lost British explorer John Franklin. Prominent Victorian writer Harriet Martineau experimented with mesmerism, and her landlady's nineteen-year-old niece, Jane Arrowsmith, under mesmeric trance, described a shipwreck hundreds of miles away that was thought to have occurred simultaneously with her clairvoyant feat. The phenomenon of table turning, during which participants would harness mysterious forces to cause tables to turn as they placed their hands on them, was highly popular in major European cities in 1851. The table turning was deemed to be the result of human magnetic or electrical forces, or even evidence of the supernatural, as it was sometimes connected to spiritualistic sйances. 7 The famous “Seeress of Prevorst,” a Bavarian peasant and invalid named Friederike Hauffe (1801–1829), remained in a semi-permanent trance state and evidenced clairvoyant and prophetic talents as well as the ability to carry on an ongoing conversation with the spirits of the dead. Justinus Kerner (1786–1862), the Swabian poet and physician who mesmerized her, published Die Seherin von Prevorst in 1829. Its translation into English in 1845 widened its impact. Other cases of mesmerized invalid women gaining extraordinary powers began to occur in the West. 8 S PIRITUALISM Those who claimed the ability under mesmerism to speak with the dead helped merge mesmerism with what was to become a major component of the occult revival: spiritualism. In Hydesville, New York, in 1848, Kate and Margaret Fox, daughters of a fairly poor family, began to communicate with a spirit that had been haunting their wooden house for some time. They communicated by an alphabetical code that the spirit knocked out for them. 9 News of the “Hydesville knockings” rapidly spread, making celebrities of the Fox girls and helping launch a frenzy of sйances and other spiritualist activity that would peak after the Civil War as Americans sought to contact their dead family members. By the 1880s spiritualism had waned and come under considerable attack in both America and Britain. (In the late 1880s, Margaret Fox confessed that the Hydesville knockings were nothing more than a “horrible deception” carried out by the sisters.) It revived again in the aftermath of the First World War. 10 As Janet Oppenheim explains: “In an atmosphere prepared by widespread interest in mesmerism and phrenology, religious unorthodoxy, mysticism, and social utopianism, spiritualism found a ready audience in numerous American communities. As spiritualism steadily moved westward across the United States, expansion to the east, across the ocean, was only a matter of time” (Oppenheim 1985, 11). Peter Washington links spiritualism to other “alternative” activities. It was seen as akin to “vegetarianism, feminism, dress reform, homeopathy and every variety of social and religious dissent” (Washington 1995, 11). Britain welcomed mediums from America such as Daniel Dunglas Home, who arrived in London in the spring of 1855 and performed sйances for upper-class British for almost two decades. 11 Home also helped promote spiritualism in Russia with a trip in 1859 and a second in the early 1870s, during which he performed a successful sйance for Tsar Alexander II (Gordin 2004, 84). Spiritualism caught the interest of Russian nobles, including Aleksandr Nikolaevich Aksakov, who sponsored mediums visiting from outside Russia, published on spiritualism, and even convinced one of Russia's most respected chemists, A. M. Butlerov, of the validity of spiritualism (Gordin 84– 85). In Britain, the intense interest in spiritualist communication with the dead spread across class lines, though, from upper-class homes to the professional middle class and working class (from which most of the mediums themselves came). Working-class audiences avidly attended the tours of traveling mediums and received the same kinds of messages from the other world that the aristocrats were receiving in their own private sйances (Oppenheim 28–29). T HEOSOPHY In 1875, spiritualist circles in New York helped launch the Theosophical Society, another major component of the occult revival. The Society was founded by H. P. Blavatsky (1831–1891) and Colonel Henry Steel Olcott (1832–1907). Blavatsky, who was born in the Russian Ukraine, claimed to have studied for seven years under Hindu mahatmas and even to have traveled in Tibet at a time when few Westerners were permitted into the country. Olcott had worked in the Navy Department during the Civil War; he had even been one of three members of the special commission to investigate the assassination of Abraham Lincoln. Both Olcott and Blavatsky had been drawn to spiritualism, and Blavatsky had worked as a spirit medium. But the organization and worldview they created was a synthesis of Western Hermeticism and Eastern religion (primarily Hinduism and Buddhism) that Blavatsky elaborated in her major works, Isis Unveiled (1877) and the two-volume Secret Doctrine (1888). Blavatsky claimed to have been instructed by the Great White Brotherhood of Masters (or mahatmas), which, she claimed, had included the religious leaders and occult adepts of the past (Jesus, Buddha, Lao Tzu, Jacob Boehme, Confucius, Moses, Plato, Roger Bacon, and Francis Bacon, to name but a few [Washington 34–36]). Maria Carlson has aptly identified Theosophy's importance to modern European culture: First, it offered to resolve the contradiction between science and religion, knowledge and faith, thereby curing the post-Enlightenment psychic schizophrenia that had led directly to the crisis of culture and consciousness. Second, it dispensed with alienating materialism by simply terming it “illusory,” and offered modern man an eternal, spiritual life instead. Third, it replaced a waning Christianity's threat of unendurable and eternal torment in hell (or its modern alternative, pessimistic existentialism) with the more soothing concepts of karma and reincarnation, thus extending the existence of the soul and providing a world that is cosmically fair and just. (Carlson 1993, 12–13) Theosophy's synthesis of Eastern and Western religious ideas offered as scientific knowledge and the notion of a secret brotherhood of adepts living in the world appealed to a widespread audience. Blavatsky organized the Society around lodges, following a Masonic model. She moved the Society's headquarters in 1882 to Adyar, near Madras, India (where it remains today). As Washington notes, “Throughout the 1880s the Theosophical Society steadily recruited members. By 1885, 121 lodges had been chartered—106 of them in India, Burma and Ceylon, where the Society had the bulk of its membership. Within a decade of Theosophy's foundation that membership was running into thousands, and distinguished converts included the poet Ella Wheeler Wilcox, Darwin's collaborator Alfred Russel Wallace and the inventor Thomas Edison” (68). The Theosophical