I actually read the first book on this list about a year ago, and i’ve started reading a few others, but I really want to try and finish them all once exams are over!
The seven daughters of Eve, Bryan Sykes - genetic discovery
The disappearing spoon, Sam Kean - the periodic table and element discovery
How to teach quantum physics to your dog, Chad Orzel - the basic principles of quantum physics
Why don’t spiders stick to their webs, Robert Matthews - explanations of everyday scientific mysteries
Why chemical reactions happen, Keeler & Wothers - a foundation in degree-level chemistry
The elements of murder, John Emsley - a history of poisonous elements
[Above: Confirmed in episode #814 of Mystery Science Theater 3000, Crow T. Robot (left) revealed that he was composed of molybdenum. Tom Servo (right) is mostly plastic, as he is merely a puppet.]
Molybdenum was discovered in 1778 by Carl Wilhelm Scheele. Molybdenum was first isolated by Peter Jacob Hjelm in 1781. This appears to be the typical way credit is assigned for molybdenum, but we're going to discuss it further.
The story begins with a mineral composed of molybdenum disulfide, MoS2. Today, it's known as "molybdenite", but in the 18th century it was called "molybdena." All of these names originate from the Greek word for lead: Μόλυβδος, molybdos. This is because molybdenum sulfide looks a whole lot like lead sulfide, aka galena. Both are black lustrous solids, and both are soft enough to leave a mark if rubbed on a surface. You know what else that sounds like? Graphite.
Of course, we know today that graphite, molybdenite, and galena are completely different materials in spite of their similar appearance. Two of them are sulfides of completely different elements, and the third, graphite, is made of carbon, an element in and of itself. Each behaves differently in various chemical reactions, as we'll see. But they do look a lot alike, and in the 18th Century, appearance was all most people had to go on. Molybdena and graphite looked a whole lot like lead ore, and so they were named after lead ore. The fact that you couldn't get any lead out of them didn't seem to bother anyone. Before the name "graphite" was coined, it was known as "plumbago", from the Latin word for lead. Processed graphite was simply known as "black lead", and we still call the stuff inside pencils "lead" to this day. But at least when we do it today, it's just a misnomer. In the 18th Century, they honestly didn't know the difference, and molybdenum disulfide was sold right along with graphite under the same name.
This was exactly the sort of confusion that chemists of the era were eager to resolve. We've already seen several old-fashioned ideas overturned in the 18th Century. The discoveries of cobalt, nickel, and manganese helped tear down the assumption that there were only seven metals. The discoveries of carbon dioxide, nitrogen, and hydrogen showed that there were different kinds of air besides atmospheric air. The discovery of oxygen demolished everything people thought they knew about fire. A proper characterization of molybdena shouldn't be too much to ask for.
[Above: Molybdenite, galena, and graphite. But which is which?]
The investigation began in 1754, when the Swedish chemist Bengt Andersson Qvist roasted a sample of molybdenum disulfide in his muffle furnace. He reported that it gave off "dense black fumes and a suffocating sulfurous odor", which would correspond with sulfur dioxide produced form the roasting. He also saw "small yellow 'flowers' like snowflakes." While they were hot, they were yellow, but when they cooled down, they turned white. Qvist realized he had obtained the calx of a metal. But which metal? Lead was the obvious suspect, so he added a sample to distilled vinegar. If there had been any lead in his calx, it would have combined with the acetic acid in the vinegar to produce lead acetate, a salt with a sweet taste that earned it the nickname "sugar of lead". But the test failed. There were no sweet-tasting salts produced because there was no lead in the calx. Whatever molybdena was, it was not a lead ore, no matter how much it might have resembled one.
However, Qvist's calx managed to pass tests for iron and copper, so he couldn't pin down just what it was. And even though he had distinguished molybdena from galena and graphite, the naming confusion persisted all the way up to 1778. In that year, Carl Wilhelm Scheele began his own investigation into molybdena, and when he reported his findings he felt it necessary to clarify which mineral he was talking about. "I do not mean the ordinary lead ore that is met with in the apothecaries' shops, for this is very different from that concerning which I now wish to communicate my experiments to the Royal Academy."
Scheele's first obstacle was obtaining a fine powder of his sample for experimentation. The trouble was that molybdena is very soft (just like graphite), so grinding it with a mortar and pestle won't work. His solution was to mix some pieces of his sample with potassium sulfate crystals, and these kept the sample from forming a black smear along the inside of his mortar. He then washed out the potassium sulfate with hot water, since molybdena isn't water soluble (like graphite).
Scheele then added nitric acid to his powdered molybdena and this converted it into a white powder which he called terra molybdaenae, or "earth of molybdaena"
In chemistry, "earth" was sometimes used as a term for calxes. Today, we know them as metal oxides, but in Scheele's day oxygen wasn't fully understood, so the term "oxide" didn't exist. Ironically, Scheele himself helped usher in oxygen theory by co-discovering oxygen, but he never got the big picture. The term "earth" probably refers to the idea of metal ores being extracted from the literal earth, but roasting in the furnace would remove any moisture or impurities, and the calx that remained could be thought of as the "pure" earth, untainted by moisture or or other principles.
Anyway, "earth of molybdaena" is the same as molybdenum calx which is the same as molybdenum oxide. Scheele's nitric acid treatment had produced the same material as Qvist's roasting experiment. Furthermore, Scheele's experiment proved conclusively that molybdenum disulfide and graphite were not the same thing. His nitric acid treatment would have had no effect on graphite at all, but it transformed molybdenum disulfide into a white solid. In modern chemical nomenclature, this would become known as molybdenum trioxide or molybdenum (VI) oxide.
Furthermore, Scheele found that this calx was acidic in nature. "It effervesces with chalk, with magnesia, and with earth of alum, with which earths it forms neutral salts, which are very difficult of solution in water." Just as carbon dioxide forms carbonic acid when it is dissolved in water, molybdenum trioxide forms an acid when it absorbs water molecules. Today, we call this hydrated form of molybdenum trioxide "molybdic acid."
This acid nature is rather significant, because up to that point no calx had been known to exhibit acidic properties. Tungstic acid was discovered around the same time, but that's another story. The point is that Scheele had successfully distinguished molybdena from everything else, and the calx he had obtained was apparently unique. Let's not forget that it changes color depending on the temperature. Qvist saw it turn yellow when hot, and white when it cooled down. Zinc oxide does the same thing, but it doesn't behave like an acid. Scheele's mentor, Torbern Bergman, suggested that this could be the calx of a brand new metal, but Scheele couldn't isolate it on his own. He used charcoal and borax in his furnace, but it just wasn't enough to get the job done, so he turned the project over to his colleague Peter Jacob Hjelm.
Hjelm's approach involved mixing molybdic acid powder in linseed oil. When heated in a closed crucible, the oil would carbonize, and the elemental carbon would be in contact with every part of the molybdic acid, greatly enhancing the efficiency of the reaction.
MoO3 + 3C → Mo + 3CO
Scheele reported Hjelm's success to Bergman on September 28, 1781, and the metal was dubbed "molybdenum" after the molybdena from which it originated.
[Above: Okay, fine. Here’s an actual picture of molybdenum metal that’s not a sassy robot puppet. Are you happy now? Couldn’t just let me have my little gag, could you? Just had to see the real thing. Well look at it. There it is. Really expands your understanding of the natural world, doesn’t it? You know it could just be a stock photo of a metal tube and you’d never know what it was made of. A guy might have painted that or something. Maybe it’s the real plastic puppet, did you ever consider that?]
If any of this seems familiar, it's because it's very similar to the isolation of manganese by Johan Gottlieb Gahn in 1774. Then, Torbern Bergman was interested in manganese dioxide, and he had Scheele follow up on it. They were convinced that it contained a new metal, but Scheele couldn't smelt it by conventional means. So they asked Gahn for help, and he made a slurry of powdered charcoal and oil and mixed powdered sample with that, then sealed it in a crucible. One wonders why Scheele didn't seek Gahn's help for molybdenum. Maybe he wasn't available at the time, but he clearly would have known what to do.
The challenge of isolating Mn and Mo was the same. Both are transition metals, and far enough on the left hand side of the periodic table to use multiple oxidation states. The previous metals had only one stable oxidation state to worry about. For instance, iron is a transition metal with many oxidation states, but only one of these, +3, forms stable oxides at room temperature. So when you smelt iron, you really only have to worry about a one-step reduction from +3 down to 0. With manganese, you're starting with +4 (manganese dioxide), and then you drop down to +2 (manganese oxide), and the +2 oxide was stable enough to stymie 18th Century technology.
In molybdenum's case, Scheele was starting with the +6 oxidation state (molybdenum trioxide), and he was probably reducing it down to the +4 state (molybdenum dioxide). The +4 oxide will decompose, but only at 1,100 °C, which may have been beyond the limits of Scheele's equipment. But he'd run into this roadblock before, so he knew to ask for help.
When you're smelting copper, you can just have some charcoal sitting in the furnace with it. It doesn't matter where, because it's going to react with oxygen in the chamber to become carbon monoxide gas. The advantage of CO as a reducing agent is that it's a gas, so it can make contact with every surface in the reaction vessel. At a high enough temperature, any metallic copper formed will melt and pool at the bottom, while the unreacted copper oxide will float on top and be exposed to more CO. Iron is more difficult because it has a higher melting point than copper. Humans solved this problem by inventing the bloomery process, where iron ore was powdered and mixed with charcoal. In the furnace, they would react without having to melt anything.
Gahn and Hjelm utilized a similar approach for manganese and molybdenum, but they also employed oils along with the powdered charcoal, and they surely used smaller vessels with less oxygen present. Under these conditions, the hot carbon atoms in the reaction would seek out oxygen atoms to combine with, but the only place to get them was from the metal calx. It took a lot of heat, but it worked. Gahn got manganese, and Hjelm got molybdenum.
What I find somewhat curious here is the matter of the credit. From what I can tell, Gahn gets sole credit for discovering manganese in 1774, even though he was merely following up on a hypothesis put forth by Bergman and Scheele. To be fair, Bergman only suspected that manganese dioxide was the calx of a new metal. He even wondered if it might be the calx of platinum, since platinum oxide was unknown in his day. So without Gahn, no one actually discovered anything. Still, without Bergman and Scheele, Gahn never would have made the discovery either. So why does Gahn get sole credit?
I was willing to write this off, except molybdenum follows a very similar path, but Hjelm doesn't get sole credit. This time, Scheele is said to have discovered the metal in 1778, followed by Hjelm's isolation in 1781. I suspect this is just a matter of chronology. The manganese work was done in the same calendar year, while it took three years to settle things with molybdenum. Nevertheless, what did Scheele discover in 1778, exactly? He didn't discover the calx, because Qvist did it in 1754. All Scheele did was find an alternate reaction pathway to get the calx. He suspected it contained a new metal, but so did Bergman, so why doesn't he get a byline in this? Besides, suspicion isn't the same thing as discovery.
Or is it? We're entering a period in history where chemists began to realize that new calxes were indicators of new metals. We're a long way from arsenic, whose oxide was long though to be a form of the element itself. Once oxygen theory took hold, and chemists understood just what calxes really were, they knew they could safely assume that any calx contained a metal, and a sufficiently unique calx was just as good as the isolated metal it contained.
But I don't think we're quite there yet. Scheele had discovered oxygen but still clung to the outmoded phlogiston theory, so when he investigated molybdenum's calx he knew what it could mean, but he still needed an isolation to make sure. Personally, I'm more interested in the timing than priority. I'm fine letting Scheele share credit with Hjlem on molybdenum, but a lot of sources cite 1778 as the date of discovery, and I don't think that's right. The real confirmation didn't come until 1781. Of course, this only matters to me because I'm trying to write these things in order.
But going forward, that's probably not going to work out. Uranium was identified in 1789, but it took more than fifty years to isolate it properly, and there were a ton of elements discovered in between. So do I write about uranium before those other elements or after? I guess we'll just have to see.
References.
I pulled pretty much all of this from Mary Elvira Weeks' 1960 edition of "Discovery of the Elements", p. 258-264.
Qvist's investigation of molybdenite was published under the title "Untersuchung vom Wasserbleye," Crell's Neues chem. Archiv, 8, 238-249 (1791); Abh. K. Schwed. Akad. (Stockholm), 1754, p. 192.
Scheele's publication on molybdenite can be found in The Chemical Essays of Charles William Scheele, Essay XII "Experiments Upon Molybdaena. 1778." p. 165-176.
Scheele's letter to request Hjelm's assistance in isolating molybdenum, and his subsequent letter to Bergman reporting Hjelm's success, are included in a book of his letters and notes compiled by A. E. Nordenskiöld , entitled Scheele's nachgelassene Briefe und Aufzeichnungen (Scheele's Posthumous Letters and Notes) See pages 332, 373, 374, 399, and 400.
Hjelm's 1790 description of the Mo reduction process was published under the title "Versuche mit Wasserbley, zur Darstellung desselben in metallischer Gestalt," in the 1790 edition of the journal Chemische Annalen für die Freunde der Naturlehre, Aerznengelartheit, Haushaltungskunde und Manufakturen. Volume 13, pages 39-45
Oxygen was discovered in 1772 by Carl Wilhelm Scheele. Oxygen was also discovered in 1774 by Joseph Preistley. Oxygen was also also discovered in 1774 by Antoine Laurent Lavoisier.
Success, as they say, has many fathers.
Before we sort out who deserves credit for what, I want to discuss just what it is that makes oxygen so important to the history of chemistry.
Had there been a periodic table in 1775, it would have looked like this:
Things have progressed nicely since the last time I posted one of these tables. We have several transition metals in a row, from manganese to zinc. Platinum and zinc are finally known to the world at large. Antimony, once lost along with the Sumerian culture, has been rediscovered. We even have a completed column in group 15, from nitrogen to bismuth. But I think the most telling detail is that more than a third of these elements have been discovered in a span of about 105 years.
That may not seem like a very rapid pace, but consider that it took the entire history of the human species up to about 1550 AD to discover the first fourteen elements. We're talking about tens of thousands of years here. Then, from 1669 to the 1774, eight new elements were discovered. Half of these eight were discovered in the 1770's alone. So the rate of discovery has increased exponentially.
This isn't a coincidence. The Scientific Revolution had begun in the 16th Century, and by the 17th Century is had begun to influence the course of alchemy. Hennig Brand discovered phosphorus in 1669, and although he wanted to keep it under wraps, there were simply too many scientists interested in what he had done and how he had done it. The rules changed, and after phosphorus, discovering a new element was something to be published in scholarly journals and books. Like the man said, the only difference between screwing around and science is writing it down. After 1669, people started writing this stuff down, and a great deal of progress was made. By 1780, there were enough elements on the board that chemists could actually begin to consider how they interrelated with one another. And that's why oxygen was so critical.
A lot of the elements I've already covered were appreciated in isolation. Copper is useful in its own right. You can fashion tools with it. Sulfur and phosphorus have interesting properties. Nitrogen and platinum were fascinating because of their reluctance to react with anything. Cobalt and nickel were important in themselves because they defied the notion of a set number of metals.
But in the 1770's, we've reached a point where chemists needed to understand the rules that governed the chemistries of these different elements. Hydrogen was generated when acid was added to certain metals. Chlorine was generated when hydrochloric acid was added to manganese dioxide. Manganese could be smelted from its ore, but with greater difficulty than other metals. Each new element raised questions about the chemical reactions that had produced it. And there would soon come a point where those chemical reactions would have to be understood before any new elements would be discovered.
Oxygen represents that crossroads. It wasn't enough to simply isolate some oxygen gas and write a paper about its physical characteristics or how it sustained a flame. Oxygen was a key to the whole game. Consider the following:
Oxygen is the most abundant element in the earth's crust, at nearly 47% by weight.
Oxygen makes up about 21% of the atmosphere. It's presence in the air is literally the only reason we breathe it.
Oxygen comprises 89% of the total mass of water.
Oxygen is what allows fire to burn.
Oxygen is the third most abundant element in the universe, at 1% by weight. (Okay, it's a distant third, but still...)
Oxygen is the most abundant element in the living things, at 65% by weight.
So you take all of the questions the Ancient Greek philosophers asked about the natural world, and how much of the answers depended on oxygen to some extent? The four classical elements--earth, air, fire, and water--all involved oxygen. The heavens contained substantial amounts of oxygen. All life is made of mostly oxygen. The ores we smelted for metal, that process relied upon the relative affinity for oxygen between metal and carbon.
I don't mean to suggest that the ancients would have understood everything if they had only known what oxygen was. My point is that any explanation for nature that doesn't include oxygen is woefully incomplete. In the 18th Century, chemistry was rapidly being built into a modern scientific discipline, but without an understanding of oxygen, it wouldn't get very far.
So on the one hand, you could say the discovery of oxygen was inevitable. It was all over the place, and sooner or later any path of chemical research was bound to run across it. On the other hand, it was also vital for the progress of science. It needed to be recognized and understood, and it needed to happen soon, or chemistry would slow to a crawl.
1) THE NEAR MISSES
Now you may wonder why it took so long for humanity to notice oxygen. Today, we all know the air is made up of about one-fifth oxygen and four-fifths nitrogen, and we take that knowledge for granted. But the air is all around us, and it's easy to think of it as a single homogeneous thing, if you even bother to think of it at all. Besides, there weren't a whole lot of other phenomena to compare it with.
Still, there were some people throughout the centuries that seemed to suspect the truth, but they never quite managed to put it all together. I don't want to spend too much time on them, but I think it's worth noting that there was a dim awareness of oxygen even before it was discovered.
2nd Century BC: Philo of Byzantium observed that air is consumed during combustion. He suspended a glass vessel over a burning candle surrounded by water. As the candle burned and used up the oxygen, the water level inside the vessel began to rise to equalize the pressure. But he interpreted this loss as a transformation of air into fire, which then passed through the glass.
8th Century AD: A Chinese philosopher named Mao-Khoa speculated that the atmosphere is composed of two aspects. The Yin part (oxygen) was an impure portion which sustained combustion, while the pure Yang portion did not. I can’t find much information on Mao-Khoa, so you may want to take this with a grain of salt, but it sounds plausible that someone might try to apply Taoist philosophy to rationalize the dual nature of air.
1478-1519: Leonardo da Vinci observed that air is consumed during combustion and respiration. As he put it: "Where flame cannot live, no animal that draws breath can live."
1630: Jean Rey noticed that tin increases in weight when calcined (oxidized), and he speculated that the additional mass was absorbed from the air. He compared the infusion of tin by air to the moistening of sand by water.
ca. 1654: Following the invention of the vacuum pump, Robert Boyle conducted various experiments which proved that air is necessary for combustion. He also suggests that there is a “vital quintessence” in the air to explain air’s limited capacity to sustain flame and respiration.
1665: Robert Hooke proposes a theory of combustion in Micrographia. By his theory, air contained a a substance that could also be found in saltpeter (potassium nitrate), and a larger quantity of an inert substance.
Hooke seems to be on the right track, but this was only a theoretical model of the air. Until someone managed to isolate and characterize oxygen and/or nitrogen, this was all just an educated guess constructed to fit experimental results.
I say this because there would soon be a rival theory that explained the same facts with a completely opposite model....
1667: Johann Joachim Becher publishes Physica Subterranea, in which he proposes a new system of elements to replace the Aristotelian system. These elements included terra pinguis, which conferred oily, sulfurous and flammable properties to matter. In Becher’s model, flammable substances contained a great deal more terra pinguis than non-flammable substances, and as they burned, they released this terra pinguis, which was then absorbed into the air.
The terra pinguis concept was completely unreal, but it explained fire just as well as Hooke’s notion of air as a mixture of reactive and unreactive components.
1668: John Mayow publishes "De respiratione", an account of his nitroaerus experiments. His research demonstrated that combustion only depends upon a portion, which he names spiritus nitroaerus. Mayow also observed that antimony increases in weight when heated. He suggested that nitroaerus is present in saltpeter, specifically in the acid part (the nitrate ion of potassium nitrate). He went on to propose that all acids contain this nitroaerus, and all animals absorb nitroaerus when they breathe.
1678: Ole Borch prepares oxygen by heating saltpeter, but has no means to collect it or study it.
You may notice that there seems to be a lot of promise in the decomposition of potassium nitrate. Several chemists managed to produce oxygen by heating it, and John Mayow even gave it a name. This would seem to blow Becher’s terrra pinguis idea out of the water, except that no one was really investigating the oxygen as a discrete material. Gas chemistry was still getting started in the 17th Century, and a lot of these guys probably just thought oxygen was a vapor expelled by saltpeter. They may have thought it represented a principle that was also present in the air, but they didn’t necessarily think of it as a separate gas that was one of the ingredients of the air.
One of the problems of alchemy and early chemistry was that no one could seem to distinguish a substances composition from its properties. To them, a slice of cheese cake contained cheese, eggs, sugar and “deliciousness”. Qualities and ingredients were one and the same. That was what Becher was getting at with his terra pinguis idea. To him, it was silly to call fire an element, when the true element was the intangible quality that made fire possible. It didn’t really matter if terra pinguis was a physical substance or not. The point was that matter could absorb and expel through chemical reactions like fire.
In 1731, the German chemist Georg Ernst Stahl modified Becher's terra pinguis concept and renamed it phlogiston. So we often say the phlogiston theory was originated by Becher in 1667, although Stahl was the one who coined the term and popularized it several decades later.
I’ve been writing about the phlogiston theory for a while now, because the men who discovered hydrogen, nitrogen, chlorine, and manganese all subscribed to the theory, and so they explained their discoveries in that context. Hydrogen was thought to be a phlogiston-rich substance released from iron and other metals. Nitrogen was thought to be ordinary air saturated with as much phlogiston as it could possibly hold. Chlorine was thought to be hydrochloric acid stripped of is phlogiston content. And manganese, like all other metals, was thought to be a calx infused with enough phlogiston to give it metallic properties.
There were a number of problems with the phlogiston model, the most glaring being that metals were supposed to give up phlogiston when they were calcined, but they gained weight in the process. One feeble workaround for this was that phlogiston possessed “negative weight”. You might wonder why the scientific community would accept such a far-fetched defense, but phlogiston had a big upside. It answered a lot of questions about fire, combustion, and other chemical changes that depended upon the air. And it was so widely accepted that it brought the scientific community a lot closer together than they might have been otherwise. Thanks to phlogiston, they were all on the same page, even if it was the wrong one.
Nonetheless, a theory is only as valuable as it is useful. By the late 18th Century, it seems clear that scientists were more interested in propping up phlogiston theory than in seeking a more viable alternative. It may have served its purpose in the 1730′s, but by the 1770′s the scientists were serving the theory, when it should have been the other way around.
There were some skeptics out there. In 1756, the Russian chemist Mikhail Lomonosov heated metals in an airtight vessel and found that the total weight of the vessel and its contents remained constant. He denied the existence of phlogiston, since his metal samples could not have given up phlogiston since their weight was unchanged. However, he failed to publish his conclusions, and he failed to recognize that only a portion of the air would combine with metal.
So that was where things stood until oxygen was truly discovered. And to start us off on that topic...
2) CARL WILHELM SCHEELE
Aside from his role in the discovery of oxygen, Scheele is probably best known for his discovery of chlorine, and his research on manganese. But before that, he was working in a pharmacy in Upsala, Sweden. It was there that he prepared oxygen in 1771 and 1772. He did this by heating mercuric oxide, just as Priestly and Lavoisier would do in 1774.
But Scheele also obtained oxygen by heating other minerals, including silver carbonate, mercuric carbonate, potassium nitrate, and magnesium nitrate.
The common theme here is that these substances all contain oxygen, and they all decompose at relatively low temperatures. In the case of mercuric oxide, it’s just a matter of the mercury-oxygen bond being fairly weak.
2HgO → 2Hg + O2
A similar situation held true for silver carbonate and mercuric carbonate. First they decomposed into mercuric and silver oxide, and then they decomposed into oxygen and the free metal.
2Ag2CO3 → 2Ag2O + 2CO2 → 4Ag + O2 + CO2
2HgCO3 → 2HgO + 2CO2 → 2Hg + O2 + CO2
As for the nitrates, Scheele was just repeating what a lot of chemists had been doing for several decades. The nitrate ion is a good oxidizer, which means it can donate one of the oxygen atoms in its structure, thus becoming a nitrite ion.
2KNO3 → 2KNO2 + O2
I haven’t found an English translation of Scheele’s oxygen work, but I suspect the nitrate decomposition was what got him started. Gas chemistry was starting to become more important in the 1770′s, and he may have wanted to revisit the gas evolved from nitrates with a more modern viewpoint. This would have also led him to look for the same gas in other minerals that readily decompose on heating.
He also obtained oxygen by distilling a mixture of manganese dioxide and arsenic acid. I’m not really sure how that worked or what led him to think of it, but I’m suitably impressed.
I’ll go into greater detail with Priestley’s work because it was published in English, but I think it’s fair to say that Scheele’s work was at least as thorough and detailed as Priestley. More to the point, Scheele completed his research two years before Priestly even got started. So why doesn't Scheele get full credit?
For whatever reason, Scheele was slow in publishing his work. He compiled his research into a book entitled Chemical Observations and Experiments on Air and Fire. Maybe if he had know there were rival scientists out there, he might have been quicker about it, but as it was he didn’t send the book off to the publisher until 1775. . Maybe the book covered more material than just the oxygen work, or maybe it just took a really long time for him to write, or maybe he was too busy working on other projects (like chlorine and manganese) to find time for it. The point is that Scheele was dropping his manuscript in the mailbox right around the time Priestley's research was hitting the shelves.
To make matters worse, Scheele’s publisher took another two years to get the book printed. In 1776, Scheele wrote to his friend Torbern Bergman:
"I have thought for some time back, and I am now more than ever convinced, that the greater number of my laborious experiments on fire will be repeated, possibly in a somewhat different manner, by others, and that their work will be published sooner than my own, which is concerned also with air. It will then be said that my experiments are taken, it may be in a slightly altered form, from their writings. I have Swederus to thank for all this."
Swederus was Scheele's publisher. I really don't understand what went wrong. "Fire and Air" eventually saw the light of day, but not until 1777, long after Priestly and Lavoisier had staked their claims.
The other thing I find interesting was that Scheele was merely worried about another scientist repeating his experiments and getting the credit. Except it had already happened. Priestley's work had been available in 1775. There was no use blaming the publisher. Even if they could have done the job instantaneously, it still would have been too late.
I don't want to be too hard on the guy, but it feels like Scheele just didn't have a firm grasp of the importance of his discovery. He waited years to publish, his choice of publisher wasn't so hot, and he appears to have been completely unaware of what other scientists were up to. I don't know if this was a character deficiency or a one-time lapse in judgement. Ah well, he'll always have chlorine.
3) JOSEPH PRIESTLEY
Joesph Priestley was an English clergyman who pursued science as a hobby. In 1767 he accepted a pastorate at Mill Hill Chapel in Leeds, and the parsonage just so happened to be next door to the Jakes and Nell Brewery. This was extremely handy for Priestley because it meant he had easy access to lots and lots of........... carbon dioxide, generated by the fermentation process used to make beer.
As you may recall, Jan Baptiste van Helmont discovered carbon dioxide by studying the gas generated by breweries, and here we see Priestley carrying on that research. He soon found that if he saturated water with carbon dioxide, it gave it a pleasant taste. So yeah, he's the guy who lived right next door to a brewery, and all he did with it was invent club soda.
What Priestley soon realized was that some gases can be collected over water, like hydrogen and nitrogen, while others, like carbon dioxide, are soluble in water, so they have to be collected over other liquids like mercury. This meant that there must be different types of "airs".
Now, this is old news to us, because we've already covered Joseph Black's carbon dioxide research in 1755, and Cavendish's hydrogen research in 1766, and Rutherford's nitrogen isolation in 1772. But in the midst of all this, Priestley had independently reached the same conclusion.
In 1773, Priestley left his ministry at Leeds to accept a patronage under the Earl of Shelburne. He moved into the Earl's estate of Bowood House, near Calne. There, he began devoting more of his time to science, although he still managed to help found Unitarianism.
He eventually published his research as a six-volume text entitled Experiments and Observations on Different Kinds of Air. Volume 2 is the one we're interested in, and it came out in 1775. Among the gases Priestley discovered were:
"marine acid air" (hydrogen chloride, HCl, the stuff you add to water to get hydrochloric acid)
"alkaline air" (ammonia, NH3)
He also isolated carbon monoxide, but apparently didn't recognize it.
But the main event was oxygen, which he obtained by heating "mercurius calcinatus" (mercuric oxide) on August 1, 1774.
Priestley collected the gas that evolved over water, and he soon found that fuel would burn more brightly in this gas than it did in air. In keeping with the phlogiston theory, he named this gas "dephlogisticated air". In other words, he saw this gas as air that was utterly free of phlogiston. By this logic, things burned more readily in this gas because it was so starved for phlogiston that it was eager to receive more and become more like atmospheric air.
Now what gave Priestley the bright idea to try this in the first place? To answer that, we ought to start with his account of the discovery, published in Experiments and Observations on Different Kinds of Air. Specifically, the Second volume, Section III, page 29-62.
[Note: There appear to be multiple editions of "E&ODKA", which were abridged or reorganized into fewer volumes. If you're looking to read this for yourself, I'm referencing the 1775 edition of volume 2, which I found here: I'm not sure why the instance of google isn't in English, but the book itself is, so you should be all set.]
Like a number of scientists before him, Priestley had heated nitrates to obtain oxygen. At the time, this hadn't meant much to him, except that all of the gases he had liberated from minerals ("factitious airs") had been "highly noxious", but the gas he got from nitre was not. It was conspicuous, but he didn't investigate any further. Also, he had heated these minerals in a gun barrel, which became corroded from all the different chemicals it was exposed to. So there was a possibility that the gun barrel's corrosion had affected the results of his nitre experiment, and yet he had no way to repeat the experiment since his gun barrel was ruined.
What Priestley needed was a burning lens, which could focus sunlight onto a glass vessel of mercury. This way, he could suspend a mineral sample inside the vessel and aim focused sunlight onto it. Any liberated gases would displace the mercury, allowing Priestley to observe and measure them. Eventually, he obtained just such a lens, and he soon went to town heating minerals to see what gases he could find.
In short, I don't think Priestley was really looking for anything in particular from mercuric oxide. He just knew that some minerals released different gases on heating, and he wanted to explore this general phenomenon as thoroughly as possible.
Once Priestley started playing with his new gas, he found that a candle burned more brightly in it than under atmospheric air. The only other gas he had found that behaved even close to this way was "nitrous air" (nitrogen monoxide, which I'm going to call "NO" from here on out.) Priestley knew this new gas couldn't be NO, because he had only been able to obtain NO from minerals that had been made by adding nitrous acid to metals. Nitrous acid hadn't been used to prepare his HgO, so that was that.
Or was it? Priestley briefly suspected that his mercuric oxide was a bad batch. But he obtained a second sample from a more reliable source, and the results were the same. In October 1774 the Earl of Shelburne invited him along on a trip to Continental Europe, and in Paris he discussed his experiment with the French chemist Antoine Lavoisier, and he purchased an even finer sample of mercuric oxide from Lavoisier's supplier.
In November, Priestley returned to his lab and got the same result from the Parisian HgO as all the others. Furthermore, Priestley was able to obtain the same gas from a completely different mineral: red lead, also known as minium, or lead oxide, Pb3O4. Like mercuric oxide, minium decomposes at the relatively low temperature of 500°C.
There was still a link between this new gas and NO. Both would sustain a candle flame, but Priestley soon found an important distinction. Oxygen was virtually insoluble in water, but NO would react with water (and the small amount of oxygen dissolved within it) to produce nitrous acid.
4NO + O2 + 2H2O ---> 4HNO2
When Priestley collected his oxygen sample over water, he found that it still sustained a candle flame, where NO could not possibly do this.
But even though the oxygen could sustain combustion, Priestley never considered the possibility that it was breathable, as atmospheric air was. He was convinced that it had to be another toxic gas, like NO, even if it wasn't NO itself. Priestley later confessed that it was prejudice that had blinded him to the truth. Phlogiston theory didn't account for a gas like oxygen, so Priestley wasn't looking for such a gas, even when he had it right in front of him. He turned his attention to other experiments until March 1, 1775, when he finally decided to compare oxygen to atmospheric air.
Priestley had found some time ago that NO would react with atmospheric air to produce nitrogen dioxide, a red-brown gas. The nitrogen dioxide could then be dissolved into water, leaving about 80% of the atmospheric air sample behind. Today, we understand that atmospheric air contains roughly 20% oxygen, and NO reacts exclusively with this portion.
2 NO + O2 ---> 2 NO2
Priestley knew that if he combined NO and air in a 1:2 ratio, he could reduce the air's volume down to 80%, and render it unbreathable. If oxygen was breathable, then it ought to produce a similar result. In this, Priestley was only partially correct. The reaction did take place, and brown nitrogen dioxide was formed in the vessel, and the final volume of the oxygen sample was diminished. But to Priestley's surprise, the remaining portion of the sample still sustained a candle flame.
This can be explained through stoichiometry. As we see in the reaction above, it takes two molecules of NO to react with one molecule oxygen. Let's say Priestley was working with 100 volumes of sample for these experiments. It doesn't matter how much one "volume" is. We're only worrying about proportions.
So Priestley had once combined 100 volumes of air with 50 volumes of NO. Every two volumes of NO could react with one volume of oxygen. We know air is about 20% oxygen, so 100 volumes of air contains 20 volumes of oxygen. So it would take 40 volumes of NO to "kill" it all. And since Priestley used 50 volumes of NO, there would still be 10 volumes left over. Chemists call this an "excess", because he used more than what he absolutely needed to get the job done. Like when they beat up that printer at the end of "Office Space." As long as it breaks, no one cares exactly how many times you have to hit a printer with a bat to break it. Unless you're some sort of bat efficiency expert. Anyway, the 80 volumes of air left over would be left alone, because NO doesn't react with any of it.
When Priestley tested his oxygen sample, he was combining 100 volumes of pure oxygen with 50 volumes of NO. Fifty volumes of NO is enough to "kill" 25 volumes of oxygen. The reaction stops, leaving 75 volumes of sample behind, but for a different reason. In the air test, the reaction stopped because there was no more oxygen for NO to react with. This time, the reaction stopped because the NO was used up. Priestley thought he had used an excess of NO, but he wasn't even close. The sample had been diminished, but it was still pure oxygen, and it could still sustain a flame just as well as it had done before.
Now oxygen had Priestley's full attention. On March 8, 1775 he put a mouse in a vessel of oxygen to settle the matter once and for all. Had the vessel been full of air, it would have been enough to keep a mouse alive for fifteen minutes. But the vessel contained pure oxygen, and so the mouse lasted thirty minutes. And it didn't even die at the end. It just passed out, and when Priestley took it over to the fire, it woke up again. Priestley recorded his astonishment in his book:
"By this I was confirmed in my conclusion, that the air extracted from mercurius calcinatus, &c. was at least as good as common air ; but I did not certainly conclude that it was any better; because, though one mouse would live only a quarter of an hour in a given quantity of air, I knew it was not impossible but that another mouse might have lived in it half an hour; so little accuracy is there in this method of ascertaining the goodness of air:"
Now that he understood what he was dealing with, Priestley began testing the oxygen to see how it stacked up to atmospheric air. Since a mouse had passed out in a sample, he assumed that it had been rendered unbreathable, so he treated it with NO to see what was left. To his surprise, the NO still reacted with the sample, and reduced its volume down to about 78% or so. The numbers don't quite line up with the previous experiment because the mouse had exhaled a bunch of carbon dioxide into the sample gas. Still, the sample was nearly pure oxygen, and Priestley still wasn't using enough NO to quench it.
Priestley slept on this, then decided to try it again. The NO still reacted with the gas. Later, he attempted to measure just how much NO was needed to completely quench the oxygen sample, and came to the conclusion that it would always take five times more NO than was needed for atmospheric air. Thus, oxygen was five times "better" than "common air".
Priestley went on to examine other minerals to see if they might release this same "dephlogisticated air" upon heating, but he was now satisfied that it was fit for respiration. So much so, that he tried breathing it himself. From Section V, p.102:
"My reader will not wonder that, after having ascertained the superior goodness of dephlogisticated air by mice living in it, and the other tests above mentioned, I should have the curiosity to taste it myself. I have gratified that curiosity by breathing it, drawing it through a glass syphon, and by this means I reduced a large jar full of it to the standard of common air. The feeling of it to my lungs was not sensibly different from that of common air, but I fancied that my breast felt peculiarly light and easy for some time afterwards. Who can tell but that, in time, this pure air may become a fashionable article in luxury? Hitherto only two mice and myself have had the privilege of breathing it."
Priestley's words were somewhat prophetic, except that breathing pure oxygen became more of a medical treatment than a recreational pastime. Well, I guess Michael Jackson's oxygen chamber was a luxury, but he was trying to prolong his life, not have fun. On the other hand, I understand that Homer Simpson sleeps nude in an oxygen tent, which gives him sexual powers.
[Above: Homer Simpson sleeps nude in an oxygen tent, which he believes gives him sexual powers.]
4) ANTOINE LAVOISIER
Of the three men credited with discovering oxygen, Lavoisier's claim is by far the weakest. Still, he gets a boost because of all three chemists, he was the only one who truly understood what oxygen actually was.
While Priestly was still preaching in Leeds, and Scheele was plugging away at his manganese research, Antoine Lavoisier was turning his attention to the chemistry of combustion. His experiments indicated that the phlogiston theory didn't hold up under scrutiny.
Now we might well wonder why it took this long for someone to speak up about this, but as Priestly had observed, prejudices and preconceived notions can allow a good scientist to overlook the truth. And while laboratory procedure had improved dramatically over the past century, chemists of the 18th Century still had a ways to go as far as making accurate measurements. Priestly had been careful about measuring the volumes of his gas samples, but he wasn't necessarily weighing everything. If he had, he might have weighed the mercuric oxide he heated to produce his "dephlogisticated air", and compared it to the metallic mercury that was left behind.
To be fair, it's a lot easier to weigh things in a laboratory in 2015 than it was in 1774. An electronic balance is a piece of cake. You put your sample on and wait for the readout to settle down. A beam balance is a pain in the butt. Priestly may not have had the means to weigh gases to any degree of accuracy, and he may not have seen the point. Volume certainly seemed more important when it came to gases, and the world was just beginning to learn that there were more than one kind of gas. It wasn't obvious that they should all have different densities. Besides, Priestly was an ascetic who pursued chemistry as a hobby. There were surely limits on how much time and money he was willing to invest in an investigation.
On the other hand, scrutiny was Lavoisier's specialty, and he could afford to apply it. Lavoisier is often known as the "father of modern chemistry", but he doesn't have a lot of important chemical discoveries or innovations to back that up. His great strength was in the rigorousness of his experiments, and in his insights as a theoretician. Lavoisier strove to make accurate measurements, so when he repeated the experiments of others, he could see things that the others may have missed. He could then take those refined observations and get to the bottom of what was going on.
On November 1, 1772, Lavoisier wrote a sealed letter to stake his claim on his discovery: That sulfur and phosphorus gain weight on combustion.
"About eight days ago I discovered that sulfur in burning, instead of losing weight, on the contrary acquires weight; that is to say, from a pound of sulfur it is possible to obtain more than a pound of sulfuric acid, allowance being made for the moisture of the air. The same is the case also with phosphorus. This augmentation of weight arises from a prodigious quantity of air that is fixed during the combustion,and which combines with the vapours.
"This discovery, which I have confirmed by experiments that I consider to be decisive, led me to think that the result which is observed in the combustion of sulfur and phosphorus might probably take place in regard to all substances which acquire weight by combustion and calcination, and I was persuaded that the augmentation of weight in metallic calces is due to the same cause.
"Experience has completely confirmed my conjectures. In reducing litharge in closed vessels by means of Hale's apparatus, I observed that at the moment when the calx became converted into metal, a considerable quantity of air was disengaged, and that the volume of this air was a thousand time greater than that of the litharge. This discovery appearing to me one of the most interesting of those that have been made since Stahl, I considered it necessary to establish my claim to having made it by placing this deposition in the hands of the Secretary of the Academie to remain private until the time when I publish my experiments.”
LAVOISIER.
Paris November 1, 1772
Now, the mere fact that substances gain weight when heated in closed vessels was nothing new. Robert Boyle had once written a paper suggesting that the weight gain was caused by the "principle" of fire penetrating the glass of the vessel. This sounds pretty far-fetched, but you have to remember that Boyle lived in the dying days of alchemy. Remember what I said about cheesecake? Sugar and eggs couldn’t pass through glass, but for all anyone knew “deliciousness” probably could.
Lavoisier wasn't buying it, and he devised an experiment in which he calcinated tin and lead in sealed vessels of different sizes. In the smaller vessels, the calcination process stopped after a certain amount of time, because there was less air present to sustain the reaction. In the larger vessels, which contained more air, the calcination proceeded further. In each reaction, the total weight of the vessel and its contents was unchanged. If the reaction had been drawing matter from beyond the vessel, rather than from the air inside, then the size of the vessel should have made no difference.
Furthermore, when the vessels were unsealed after the experiment, air could be heard rushing in, and the weight of the vessel was increased accordingly. The larger vessels sucked in more air, and the smaller vessels sucked in less air.
Lavoisier then realized that only a portion of the air was being consumed during the calcination of metal. He wasn't sure of the specifics, but he was willing to conclude that the air must be a mixture of gases, or possibly a chemical compound. He announced this conclusion to the French Academy of Sciences in November 1774.
And this is where the waters get muddy, because Lavoisier had met with Joseph Priestly in October of 1774. Remember? Priestly discussed his mercuric oxide experiments with Lavoisier, and he even acquired a sample of mercuric oxide from Lavoisier's chemical supplier. Later in November, Lavoisier began experimenting with mercuric oxide himself. Coincidence? Maybe...
Oh, and guess who else was in contact with Lavoisier around this time? That's right, Carl Wilhelm Scheele, the other discoverer of oxygen. On September 30, 1774, he sent Lavoisier a letter about his oxygen research.
Scheele's business was simple. He knew Lavoisier had access to better equipment, and he was hoping Lavoisier might use it to heat silver carbonate to produce oxygen gas.
Lavoisier never acknowledged Scheele’s letter, but we know he received it on October 15, 1774, because it was found among his effects after his death. And then a month later, he was pursuing a similar line of research. Coincidence? Maybe...
The problem here is that Priestly and Scheele deserve co-credit for discovering oxygen because they did so independently of each other, around the same time. Lavoisier would merit co-discoverer credit under these same conditions, except he was in contact with both Priestly and Scheele right before he published his own research. If he was merely following their lead, then he doesn't deserve any credit.
But Lavoisier failed to acknowledge Priestly or Scheele when he published his work. Was this an intentional snub? Was he trying to claim full credit and hoping no one would call him on it? Or did he truly fail to notice the connection between their experiments and his own? Or did he just forget his visit from Priestly altogether? He may have received Scheele's letter, but did he ever sit down and read it?
[”And that’s the story of how I discovered oxygen all by myself, with no outside help whatsoever! Er, you believe me, right, Marie? Right?”]
The general consensus is that Lavoisier was pulling some shenanigans. Even if he was truly innocent, he still comes across as a bit of a jerk in all this. The thing is, even if Lavoisier was cribbing from Priestley and Scheele, it only took him a few weeks to connect the dots. Meanwhile Priestley went home to England and was so mystified by oxygen that he set it aside for four months to work on other things. And even after he found that it was five times more breathable than air, he still couldn't quite put it together.
This is what I meant before when I said oxygen had to be discovered for chemistry was to progress much further. Lavoisier had spent two years questioning the phlogiston theory before he met Priestley. That alone gave him a better understanding of the decomposition of mercuric oxide. Priestly and Scheele, however, were die-hard phlogistonists. The great irony is that the two of them discovered oxygen, yet they couldn't accept it for what it was. Lavoisier wasn't shackled to the phlogiston tradition, and so he could make greater progress in a shorter amount of time.
Regardless of where Lavoisier got the idea to play with mercuric oxide, the point was that it represented the reverse of the calcination experiments he had done. He had proven that a portion of air was absorbed by metals during calcination. So if he took a calx and heated it to decomposition, he could then release that same portion of the air and study it.
The results of Lavoisier's work presented in what is now called the "Easter Memoir", because he read it to the French Academy on Easter Sunday, April 16, 1775. It's proper title was "Memoir on the Nature of the Principle Which Combines with Metals During Calcination."
As Lavoisier explained, the unique thing about mercury's calx was that it could be decomposed without using charcoal to reduce it. Still just to eliminate uncertainty, he went ahead and reduced it along with some charcoal, just to prove that it was indeed a calx. With that out of the way, he isolated the oxygen, and determined the same properties that Priestly had found at about the same time.
But the important question was this: Where was the phlogiston? Lavoisier had shown that mercuric calx could be broken down into metallic mercury, a gas, and nothing else. By the phlogiston theory, metals were thought to be dephlogisticated calxes, so no phlogiston there. The gas couldn't contain phlogiston because it supported combustion even better than atmospheric air. That's why Priestly had named it "dephlogisticated air".
So if you can combine dephlogisticated air and dephlogisticated calx and produce a calx, then phlogiston apparently plays no role in any of it. One month later, Lavoisier's memoir was published in the Journal de Physique's May 1775 issue. Not long after that, Priestly read about it, and he realized that Lavoisier had goofed.
Like Priestly, Lavoisier had tested his oxygen sample by mixing it with NO gas in a 2:1 ratio. Again, this ratio would be sufficient to render atmospheric air unsuitable for respiration. Lavoisier's oversight was that he only performed this test to see if a reaction took place, and to measure how much gas was left over. He did not check the remaining oxygen to see if it was still capable of supporting a flame. Consequently, Lavoisier didn't realize just how different from atmospheric air oxygen really was.
But Priestly knew, because he had made the same mistake once. This led to a rather awkward exchange where Priestly wrote about Lavoisier's work to point out his error, but dancing around the topic of their meeting in October 1774, and Lavoisier's failure to mention Priestly in his Easter Memoir. Lavoisier wrote a follow-up paper in 1776, and though he made sure to acknowledge Priestley's contributions this time, he still maintained that he alone had been the one with the correct conclusion.
Nonetheless, the Easter Memoir went through some revisions before the French Academy finally published it in 1778. By then, Lavoisier had taken Priestley's advice to heart, and he soon realized that the gas he had obtained from mercuric oxide was similar to common air, or better than common air. As he wrote:
"This seems to prove that the principle which unites with metals when they are calcined and causes them to increase in weight is nothing else than the purest part of the air which surrounds us, which we breathe, and which during calcination passes from a condition of expansibility to that of solidity; if it is obtained in the form of fixed air from metallic reductions in which charcoal is employed, this is due to the combination of the charcoal with the pure part of the air, and it is very probable that all metallic calces would give, like that of mercury, only this eminently respirable air, if one could reduce them all without addition, as precipitated mercury is reduced... "
This only cemented Lavoisier's argument against the phlogiston theory. The same portion of the air that went into metals during calcination was also being released during reduction. The reaction was just too simple for phlogiston to be involved. Whatever role charcoal played in the reaction, it must have been an intermediary between the air and the metal. And since the reaction could be easily explained without phlogiston, what good was the theory?
Lavoisier named the gas "vital air" for a time, but in 1777 he gave it a new name: oxygène. This was in reference to Lavoisier's belief that oxygen was a component of all acids. The Greek word ὀξύς (oxys) means "sharp", and was meant to refer to the sharp or sour taste of acids, while -γενής (-genēs) means "producer" or "begetter". The acid connection had some legitimacy, since nitric, sulfuric, perchloric, phosphoric, and acetic acids all had oxygen in them. But hydrochloric acid doesn't contain oxygen, thus disproving Lavoisier's theory. Unfortunately, the truth about hydrochloric acid didn't come to light for a few dozen years, and by then the name "oxygen" had become too entrenched to change.
On the other hand, oxygen is such an important element that the meaning behind its name is virtually irrelevant. "Oxygen", "oxide", "oxidation", and "oxy" all refer to the element itself now, and not the sharpness or acidity it was named for.
Lavoisier’s credit for co-discovering oxygen would be dubious if we were talking about any other element. But oxygen was more than just a cool new gas. It overturned the last vestige of alchemical thought, and paved the way for the Chemical Revolution. For the first time ever, human beings understood what fire was. No more vague analogies or an abstract models. Oxygen was real, and fire was what really happened combined with something very quickly. Priestly didn’t figure that out. Scheele didn’t figure that out. Lavoisier did.
Sure, he was kind of a butthole about the whole thing, but the important thing is that I don’t have to type the word “dephlogisticated” anymore when I write about this stuff. Lavoisier can claim to have discovered the moon for all I care.
[”All the other scientists were like ‘Duh, duh what am big glow thing in sky?’ But then I climbed in my rocketship and proved it was the moon--! Honey? Honey? Are you sighing because you’re so impressed with my exploits?”]
[Above: People say, you know, that I’m an idiot or something because all I do is cut lawns for a living, you know? Well, I’m working on it, you know, so I don’t ever have to-- you know, I’m gonna be the head greenskeeper-- hopefully within six years. That’s my--my schedule. But I’m studying a lot of this stuff so I know it, you know. Like, uh, you know... chinch bugs. You know. Manganese. Lot of people don’t even know what that is.]
Johan Gottlieb Gahn discovered manganese in 1774. Personally, I feel that Torbern Bergman and Carl Wilhelm Scheele deserve partial credit, but I'll let you be the judge.
Now I can't find much in the way of sources on this, but Wikipedia says that the name "manganese" owes to the discovery of certain minerals in the land known as Magnesia.
Complicating matters is the fact that there's more than one place by that name, so even the geography is confusing. Let's back up a little further, since we're already on a tangent here.
In the origin myth of the Greek culture, the king of the gods, Zeus, was rather notorious for siring children with human women. Three of these children were Graecus, Makedonos, and Magnes, who became the first leaders of the Greek, Macedonian, and Magnesian peoples. Famous Magnesians include Jason (of Argonaut fame), and Achilles, the hero of the Trojan War.
There's a regional unit of modern-day Greece known as Magnesia, so I would assume this was the site of the Magnesian homeland, the first location to bear the name. Beyond this, the ancient Magnesians established at least two colonies in what is now western Turkey: Magnesia ad Sipylum, now knowns as Manisa, and Magnesia on the Maeander, whose ruins were first excavated in 1891.
A number of minerals were also named after Magnesia, and so it was assumed that these minerals were first discovered in one of the lands that bore the name. Or perhaps they were named for the Magnesian people themselves, or it's all a big coincidence. To be blunt, I find the entire situation ridiculous. With all this stuff bearing the same name, it's impossible to sort out what was intended to honor what. At least, I would assume the purpose was to pay tribute to something. If the real idea was to confuse people, then well done.
Anyway, these were the minerals that were named after Magnesia:
Magnetite: This is an iron oxide mineral which can sometimes become naturally magnetized. Naturally magnetic magnnetite is called lodestone, and this was where humanity first encountered the property of magnetism, hence the name.
Magnesia alba: This is a white oxide of magnesium, atomic number 12. The "alba" part of the name comes from the Latin word for "white", and this was added to distinguish the white magnesium oxide from...
Magnesia negra: A dark colored oxide of manganese, atomic number 25. This mineral was also known as "pyrolusite" and in the 1540 metallurgical text De la pirotechnia, it was called Braunstein for it's dark brown color.
There were two important uses for manganese dioxide. Just as cobalt oxide could be used to tint glass blue, and nickel would give glass a green color, manganese dioxide would turn glass purple. So that's pretty cool.
[Above: Two glass Whitall Tatum insulators, colored purple by manganese. Yours for just $41.]
But there was more. See, medieval glassmakers were working with raw materials that contained trace amount of iron oxides, and this meant that their glass would end up with a greenish tint, even without using any additives to color it. However, if they added manganese dioxide to the glass while it was still molten, the glass would come out completely colorless. And so glassmakers would call the mineral by yet another name: sapo vitri, which is Latin for "glass soap".
So yeah, manganese can't catch a break when it comes to names. "Magnesia negra" doesn't tell you anything, because you can find it in all sorts of countries besides Greece. "Braunstein" just means "brown stone", which isn't very specific at all. Now we have "glass soap"? But it isn't glass, and it's not soap. Sure, it cleans glass in a manner analogous to soap, but I wish they'd have just gone with the purple tinting thing and named it "Purplesaurus Rex." At least it would have been distinct.
According to Mary Lee Weeks in "Discovery of the Elements", manganese may have been isolated in 1770 by the Austrian chemist Ignatius Gottfried Kaim, who published his findings in his dissertation "De metallis dubiis". He heated powdered manganese dioxide with "black flux", which I understand to be a mix of carbon and potassium carbonate. Weeks complained that Kaim's publication was rare and inaccessible, but I found it on Google Books surprisingly quickly. Just goes to show what a difference fifty years makes. Anyway, it's in Latin and I don't think I'm going to find anything important that Weeks hadn't already revealed. Kaim's method sounds very similar to what Gahn did a few years later, so it's at least plausible. But no one paid much attention to Kaim's work, so he didn't get the credit. I will note that Kaim used the term "magnesia vitrariorum", which was yet another name for manganese dioxide.
I'm not sure just when the extra 'n' came into use. Wikipedia explains that it was surely a deliberate corruption of the word "magnesia", because both the black and white minerals were useful to alchemists and glassmakers, and they found the similar names just as intolerable as I do. What I do know is that it was still being called "magnesia negra" all the way up to 1774, so it probably took the discovery of the element to get people to stop confusing it with the other guy.
Eventually, the Swedish chemist Torbern Bergman took up the study of "black magnesia" and asserted that it had nothing whatsoever to do with the white magnesium oxide. As he said:
"The mineral called black magnesia is nothing other than the calx of a new metal, which must not be confounded with lime nor with magnesia alba."
Aside from Kaim's overlooked dissertation, this seems to be the first hint of the truth behind "black magnesia". By now, chemists had begun to notice that certain minerals resembled the calxes of known metals. Cobalt and nickel were discovered in this fashion, and while some scientists were skeptical of new metals, Bergman had been a supporter of the nickel discovery, and lobbied his peers in Sweden to accept it. So when a new metal oxide came to Bergman's attention, he had the insight to recognize it, and the open-mindedness not to look the other way.
For instance, neither lime (calcium oxide), nor magnesia alba (magnesium oxide) had been successfully reduced into metals, but they were still recognized as calxes. They resembled other calxes, but not completely, nor did they perfectly resemble each other, as Joseph Black concluded in 1755. So even though Bergman couldn't isolate the metal in "black magnesia", he could still say with some confidence that it was something new.
Unable to isolate manganese himself, Bergman handed it off to his friend and colleague Carl Wilhelm Scheele. Scheele studied "black magnesia" for three years, and while he also failed to isolate the metal, he still learned a great deal about its chemistry, and he published his findings in 1774. Bergman submitted a supplement to Scheele's paper, which explained some of the theories surrounding manganese's true nature.
"After he [Scheele] had finished these experiments, I informed him that Mr. Sage supposes manganese to be nothing else than a mineralised mixture of cobalt and zinc. He immediately made several experiments for this purpose, but found not the least mark of either of those metals. Manganese has been classed by all mineralogists among the iron ores. Mr. Pott, however, thought the iron to be mixed only accidentally; and at last Mr. Cronstedt, in his Essay on Mineralogy 1758, placed it among the earths."
So Bergman was convinced that manganese was an undiscovered metal. Scheele's research had shown no signs of cobalt or zinc, and if it had been iron all along, why didn't iron compounds have the same effect on glass? I think Cronstedt's suggestion was that "black magnesia" contained no metal whatsoever. That is, he wondered if the reason Bergman and Scheele couldn't isolate a metal was because there was simply nothing to isolate. But that didn't wash with Bergman, who replied:
"No pure earth colours glass; but all metallic calxes have this property. Manganese, therefore, in this respect shows a great resemblance to the latter, which is further increased by its specific gravity, and its strong attraction for phlogiston."
Bergman was willing to concede, however, that it might not be a brand new metal. Platinum had been introduced to Europe only a few decades earlier, and in that time no one had been able to find or produce a platinum oxide. So perhaps magnesia negra had been this elusive platinum oxide all along, and the two mysteries would solve each other. In any event, Bergman knew there was a discovery to be to be made in "black magnesia", and Scheele's 1774 publication supported this assertion.
Later that same year, Bergman's assistant, Johan Gottlieb Gahn, got involved. He took a crucible, lined it with wet charcoal dust, then put powdered "black magnesia" mixed with oil in the middle. He then added more charcoal dust to cover the "black magnesia". Then he put another crucible on top of the first one, and sealed them together. After heating this container intensely for an hour, he opened the thing up and found a lump of metal.
But Gahn never published his work. We only know about it because Scheele referred to it in his correspondence with Gahn. This can be found in the book "Efterlemnade bref och anteckningar," which is apparently a collected volume of Scheele's letters. From these, we see that Scheele sent Gahn a sample of purified pyrosulite, and looked forward to seeing what Gahn could do with it. That letter was dated May 16, 1774. In the next letter to Gahn, dated June 27, 1774, Scheele thanks Gahn for sending him a manganese regulus, indicating that Gahn's efforts were successful. Worth noting is that Scheele referred to the metal as "regulus magnesiae", so the extra "n" still hadn't taken hold just yet.
In 1775, Torbern Bergman edited a book of chemical lectures by H. T. Scheffer. It was in his annotations that he announced Gahn's discovery of manganese to the world. From p. 483 of the translation by J. A. Schufle:
"Note 3. Without now going through the 14 metals, we have lately gotten knowledge of a fifteenth [metal]. That something metallic is found in brunsten, which makes up its essential part, I have reported in KVAH [Kunglige Vetenskaps Akademien Handlingar: Transactions of the Royal Academy of Science (of Sweden)] proof of its density, its power of coloring glass, and its precipitation with bloodlye. Mr. J. G. GAHN, not knowing of my reports, has at the same time actually brought out of it by reduction a semi-metal, which in tensile strength approaches nearest to platina, and on the other hand does not resemble any of the earlier known [metals], whereupon he soon learned to publish his research. I have also afterwards obtained the regulus of brunsten by reduction, but could not purify it from iron; it is called Magnesium, to avoid excess verbiage, and to distinguish it from the earth magnesia."
Apparently Bergman had already settled on a name, and I have to wonder if Gahn or Scheele were consulted before he went public with it. For whatever reason, it didn't stick, and the word "magnesium" would end up being used for Element 12 once it was discovered. I don't know when or why the name was changed, but I do know that Antoine Lavoisier's 1789 list of "Simple Substances" called it "manganese". Lavoisier's nomenclature system became very influential, so if he didn't coin "manganese" he probably helped cement it as the accepted name.
Like I said at the beginning, I'm dubious that Gahn alone deserves the credit for discovering manganese. He certainly isolated it all by himself, but he only worked on the problem because Scheele supplied the purified ore, and because Scheele and Bergman had so thoroughly convinced themselves that there was a metal in there for Gahn to isolate. To me, that sounds like a collaboration.
As for the isolation itself, Weeks praised Gahn's technique in "Discovery of the Elements," but I'm not sure I'm quite as impressed.
I've covered this many times before, but metals like copper can be isolated from their oxides by heating them in the presence of a reducing agent, such as carbon monoxide.
CuO + CO → Cu + CO2
The basic idea is to heat up the metal oxide while it's in the presence of a substance that craves oxygen even more than the metal does. The carbon monoxide gas surrounds the copper oxide, and yanks apart every copper-oxygen bond it can get at. This forms carbon dioxide, a much more stable molecule. Since carbon dioxide is so stable, it won't react to the metallic copper left behind. The reaction chamber can then be cooled to room temperature and the copper metal collected for use.
Copper's just about the easiest metal to do this with, if we don't count metals like mercury which bond to oxygen so weakly that the process isn't even needed. Humans probably learned to smelt metal by playing with copper ore in a campfire, because a campfire is hot enough to melt the copper metal as it's produced, thus exposing fresh oxide surfaces to the reaction.
Things became more challenging when humans tried to smelt iron ore. This is because iron has a much higher melting point, and it was impractical to smelt it using the same method that had worked so well for copper, lead, and tin. Humans got around this problem by inventing the bloomery, which smelted powdered iron oxide in solid state. The process reduced the iron oxide to a porous mass called a "bloom", which could then be hammered into a more solid shape later.
Now I don't think carbon monoxide was on anyone's radar in the late 18th Century. Humans had been using it to smelt metals for millennia, but they probably didn't understand how it worked. You could simply add charcoal to the reaction vessel and it would produce carbon monoxide by reacting to the limited supply of oxygen in the sealed vessel. So I imagine a lot of alchemists and chemists simply credited the absence of fresh air and the presence of elemental carbon.
So if you adopted this method with manganese dioxide, and tried to smelt it with just enough charcoal to produce an blanket of CO, you'd get this:
MnO2 + CO → MnO + CO2
The calx is reduced all right, but only part-way. Instead of giving up both of its oxygen atoms, the manganese atom only gives up one. The carbon monoxide is converted to carbon dioxide, and so it's reducing power is used up.
Now, you might wonder why we don't just add more CO to force the reaction to keep going. But that's like riding two motorcycles at once and expecting to go twice as fast. It doesn't work that way. One CO molecule reacts with one unit of manganese dioxide to produce MnO and carbon dioxide. A second CO molecule would have no impact on this. It would simply find another manganese dioxide unit to react with. Any extra CO molecules left over at the end would simply do nothing.
To put it another way, carbon monoxide isn't a strong enough reducing agent to reduce manganese dioxide to the free metal. It could do the job with copper and iron, but this manganese a bridge too far. But why should this be?
The problem with manganese is that it's got more than one stable oxide, because it has multiple oxidation states. Like any element, atoms of manganese are surrounded by electrons, and the outermost shell of electrons, the valence shell, are the ones that define how manganese interacts with with the world. Manganese's valence shell is of principal quantum number 4, and it contains two electrons in an s-subshell. These electrons can be shared with other atoms to form chemical bonds.
Normally, having only two valence electrons would mean that an atom can only have a valence of +2. But manganese is a transition metal, which means that some of the inner electrons can get involved as well. For manganese, the next shell down is principle quantum number 3. This shell contains an s, p, and d subshell, and the d-subshell is the one that matters here. The energy level of this 3d subshell happens to be very near that of the 4s subshell. So near, in fact, that any electrons in the 3d subshell can participate in chemical bonds.
The d-subshell can hold up to ten electrons. In the case of manganese, only five electrons occupy the 3d subshell. This is an interesting situation, because a half-full subshell is rather stable. This puts manganese in a very versatile situation for chemical bonding. It can share one or two of its 4s electrons, or it can share some or all of its five 3d electrons, or it can share all seven of them at once. So manganese can exist in oxidation states anywhere from -3 to +7, although some of these are easier to achieve than others.
To be sure, iron is a transition metal as well, but its electron configuration has six d-electrons, which is a little more than half-full, and so this places limits on the oxidation states it can realistically achieve. Generally speaking, iron prefers to share only two or three electrons at a time. This leaves five electrons in its d-subshell unshared, which keeps the d-subshell half full, which is a nice place to be. So iron (II) and iron (III) are really the only kinds of iron salts you tend to see. Usually, iron salts can be either one, such as iron (II) sulfate or iron (III) sulfate. But oxygen is very aggressive about electron sharing, and so when iron bonds with oxygen the higher oxidation state is preferred. Iron (II) oxide is stable, but when you heat it enough, some of it decomposes into iron (III) oxide. So where smelting is concerned, the +3 oxidation state of iron is the only one you really need to worry about. If you can reduce iron (III) oxide at all, it'll go to an oxidation state of 0, which is the free metal.
But because manganese has a wider variety of oxidation states, a one-step reduction isn't necessarily a given. Manganese dioxide represents manganese at +4. It's usually not the most stable oxidation state, but it is when oxygen is involved. Manganese (II) oxide is also stable. Not quite as stable as manganese (IV) oxide, but in a vessel full of hot carbon monoxide it'll do.
I assume this was the problem Bergman and Scheele kept running into. They knew how to reduce metals in general, but manganese posed a whole new obstacle that 18th century metallurgy had never encountered before. So the tried and true methods simply weren't enough. Instead of reducing the oxide into a free metal, it reduced the oxide into another oxide.
This is why humanity had only discovered 14 metals by 1774. Most of the undiscovered metals were simply too reactive to be pulled apart from their compounds. Manganese, at least, was willing to meet chemists halfway. A lot of metal oxides would have refused to react with hot carbon monoxide altogether, but manganese would give up one of its two oxygens, just not both.
And maybe this was where Gahn stood out from among his colleagues. Under normal smelting conditions, the manganese dioxide would react, just not to completion. Gahn wouldn't have known about oxygen or oxidation states or d-electrons, but he did have one thing going for him, and it was was the phlogiston theory. And while I've been giving phlogiston a lot of flak in the last few posts I've made, it did provide a practical model for smelting metals.
See, we know today that when you smelt a metal like copper, you're taking the metal calx and stripping it of its oxygen to leave the bare metal. According to the phlogiston theory, it's the other way around, and you're adding phlogiston to a calx to synthesize the metal. So you could think of a metal as a "phlogisticated calx".
There are problems with this theory, mainly because phlogiston doesn't exist and oxygen does. But the theory still makes it very clear what you need when the process doesn't work the way it's supposed to. If Gahn had been working with a more difficult metal, he would have gotten no reaction at all, and he probably would have given up on it. But since it reacted without yielding a metal, he may have interpreted this as a partial phlogistication of the calx. Normal smelting conditions could force some phlogiston into manganese calx, just not enough to produce a metal.
So he had to use a stronger means of phlogistication, which modern chemistry would call a stronger reducing agent. Po-TAY-to, po-TAH-to.
Gahn didn't know that elemental carbon was a stronger reducing agent than carbon monoxide, but he did know that more charcoal meant more phlogiston, and a hotter temperature would facilitate the reaction. When Henry Cavendish tried to saturate air with phlogiston, he used red hot charcoal to do it, and it worked. Gahn was applying the same idea to metal ore. Instead of just having a lump of charcoal in his reaction vessel, he lined his crucible with carbon and mixed his ore with carbon and oil, and put some more carbon on top. I don't know how large his crucible was, but I imagine it was fairly small. Whatever air might have been sealed inside would have been consumed very early on.
The point of all of this was that Gahn wanted to use more carbon, with less air. I'm not sure what purpose the oil served, but Gahn may have seen this as a rich source of phlogiston in liquid form. And smothering the ore in cokey-oil would ensure that it would be completely surrounded by phlogiston when he turned up the heat.
In modern terms, you have this:
MnO2 + 2C → Mn + 2CO
I don't know how much heat Gahn used, but it was probably pretty hot. He didn't skimp on the carbon, so why hold back on the temperature? In any case, the reaction converted manganese from an oxidation state of +4 all the way down to 0. Conversely, carbon's oxidation state was increased from 0 to +4.
Again, I'm not sure that I'm terribly impressed with his solution to the problem, since it was just "More Charcoal, More Heat." Don't get me wrong, it worked. He discovered manganese. That's more than I did. I just don't see this as a terribly inspired approach. Gahn basically took what Bergman and Scheele probably tried and just turned it up to eleven. Then again, I'm looking back with the benefit of 241 years of hindsight. It always seems obvious after the fact, but maybe Gahn's brilliance wasn't in turning up the dial, it was in realizing that there was a dial to be turned.
[Above: Chlorine gas in a stoppered Erlenmeyer flask prepared for a demonstration in this video. Chlorine was named for the Greek word χλωρός (chloros), which means “pale-green” or “yellowish-green”. ]
Chlorine was discovered by Carl Wilhelm Scheele in 1774. Scheele published his discovery in the scholarly journal Kungliga Svvenska Vetenskapsakademien Handlingar. His paper appeared in the 1774 edition, on pages 89-116, and 177-194. The paper is entitled "Om Brun-sten eller Magnesia nigra och dess egenskaper." This translates into "Concerning Braunstein or Magnesia negra and its properties."
So you're probably wondering what magnesium has to do with the discovery of chlorine. And the answer is nothing. Absolutely nothing.
To untangle this whole mess, we have to go back to the time of the ancient Greeks. One of their tribes was the Magnetes, who founded colonies in Western Anatolia, or modern-day Turkey. One colony was named "Magnesia on the Meander" and the other was called "Magnesia ad Sipylum". I don't know how old those colonies were, but to give you an idea, the Magnetes were mentioned in Homer's epic poem the Iliad, which is thought to have been written around the eighth century B.C.
It is thought that a number of minerals were named for the colonies of Magnesia because the ancient Greeks first discovered them in that region. These include magnetite, magnesia alba, and magnesia negra.
Wherever these minerals were actually discovered, they became inextricably linked to Magnesia and to each other. However, this was about all they had in common.
Magnetite is a naturally occurring form of iron oxides, which can sometimes become magnetized. These naturally magnetic specimens, also known as lodestones, were how humanity first encountered the property of magnetism.
Magnesia alba, also known as periclase, has no magnetic properties at all, because it contains no iron. Instead, it's a white oxide of the metal that was eventually named magnesium, atomic number 12.
Magnesia negra, also known as pyrolusite, is a black oxide of the metal that was eventually named manganese, atomic number 25. It also has no magnetic properties, but it was probably confused for magnetite because of its similar color.
I suspect that part of the problem with these three minerals was that they may have been found together in nature, so that they were all intermingled when they were studied. So even though two of them have no magnetic properties on their own, they may have been contaminated with enough magnetite to make it appears as thought they all did. Whatever it was, our modern terms "magnet", "magnesium", and "manganese" probably all come from the same root word, even though they have nothing to do with one another.
Now I plan to cover the discovery of manganese right after chlorine, so I don't want to get too far ahead of myself. Suffice it to say that in the 1770's Carl Wilhelm Scheele was trying to get to the bottom of just what magnesia negra was. One of his experiments involved adding hydrochloric acid to magnesia negra, which produced chlorine gas.
MnO2 + 4HCl → MnCl2 + Cl2 + 2H2O
Within the scope of Scheele's research, this is rather important, because magnesia alba the white oxide, won't react this way.
MgO + 2HCl → MgCl2 + 2H2O
With this and other evidence, Scheele was able to demonstrate that magnesia alba and negra were the calxes of two distinct metals. Manganese would be isolated later that same year, followed by magnesium in 1808.
So why does one reaction produce chlorine gas, but the other one doesn't? The difference is that the first reaction is a redox reaction. So I have to pause here to explain what redox means.
Now we've already covered some redox reactions that were used to isolate other elements. Smelting is a redox reaction by which oxidized metal is reduced to its metallic state.
CuO + CO → Cu + CO2
The concept is fairly straightforward when oxygen is involved. Here, copper oxide gives up its oxygen to carbon monoxide. The CO is oxidized into CO2, while the CuO is reduced into Cu. One species gains an oxygen atom, the other one loses an oxygen atom.
However, the redox concept can be applied to reactions that don't involve oxygen at all. This makes it somewhat difficult to tell what's being oxidized by what. To clarify matters, chemists assign oxidation numbers to the atoms involved in a reaction. These numbers represent the oxidation state of a particular atom.
Oxidation states can be thought of as a hypothetical charge on an atom. Chemical bonds are formed when atoms share electrons, and these bonds are often thought of as either covalent or ionic. In a covalent bond, the electrons are shared equally. In an ionic bond, the "shared" electrons are hoarded by one of the atoms, which takes on a negative charge. The other atom takes on a positive charge, and the two ions are held together by the attraction of their opposite charges. These are two absolute kinds of bonding, and in the real world the truth tends to lie somewhere in the middle. Still, it can be useful to think of chemical bonds as if they were really just a bunch of ions stuck together like little magnets.
For example, in the hydrogen chloride molecule, we could think of the chloride ion stealing the electron away from the hydrogen. We could thus assign the hydrogen an oxidation number of +1, reflecting its (hypothetical) positive charge. And chlorine would be assigned -1.
In general, oxygen is almost always assigned an oxidation number of -2. This is because an oxygen atom has six electrons in its outermost electron shell, also known as its valence shell. Since this shell can hold a total of eight electrons, and it's most stable when its full, an oxygen atom tends to crave two more electrons, which would correlate with a charge of -2. Since oxygen is the second most electronegative element of all, it tends to get those electrons whenever push comes to shove. And so this is reflected in how we assign the hypothetical charge that decides its oxidation number.
So with these rules, we can look at the reduction of copper and assign numbers to see what's going on.
CuO + CO → Cu + CO2
All of the oxygens in the reaction are assigned -2. An uncharged compound or element is always assigned an oxidation number of 0, so we can use this to deduce the oxidation numbers of carbon and copper. On the reactant side, copper must have an oxidation number of +2, and so must carbon.
But on the product side, things have changed. The copper is now all alone, so it's oxidation number is 0. Carbon is now bonded two two oxygens, each with oxidation number -2. So the carbon must have an oxidation number of +4 to balance things out.
This gives us an insight into the reaction. Copper's oxidation number decreased from +2 to 0, and carbon's number increased from +2 to +4. The copper was reduced, while the carbon was oxidized.
Now, let's look at the reaction Scheele used to produce chlorine gas.
MnO2 + 4HCl → MnCl2 + Cl2 + 2H2O
The oxidation numbers of hydrogen and oxygen are unchanged through the reaction. Hydrogen is always +1, and oxygen is always -2. On the reactant side, manganese has to have an oxidation number of +4 to counter the -2's of the two oxygens it's bonded with. The chlorine in HCl must had an oxidation number of -1.
On the product side, manganese has traded its oxygens for chlorines. Since each of these chlorines has an oxidation number of -1, manganese must have a number of +2. As for the chlorine molecule, its oxidation number must be zero.
In short, the manganese oxidation number changed from +4 to +2. It decreased, so we say the manganese was reduced. The chlorines that formed their own molecule saw their oxidation number increased from -1 to 0. So we say the chlorine was oxidized.
When we say that, we don't mean that the chlorine atoms were literally combined with oxygen. This is a figurative kind of oxidation, shown by the increase in oxidation number. It's a rather unwieldy terminology, but it was established before chemists really had a handle on oxygen or chemical bonds or electrons. I still think it's worthwhile to refer to it as "oxidation", because it hints at the connection between these very different reactions. When you smelt copper oxide, you reduce it from copper (I) to copper (0), the free metal. In Scheele's reaction, he reduced manganese (IV) to manganese (II).
This brings us back to the magnesium oxide, and its own reaction with hydrochloric acid.
MgO + 2HCl → MgCl2 + 2H2O
On the reactant side, magnesium must have an oxidation number of +2. But on the product side... it still has an oxidiation number of +2. I won't bother with the rest, but if you look it over yourself, you can see that the oxidation numbers remain the same for every element involved in the reaction. To be sure, a reaction definitely takes place. It's just not a redox reaction.
See, the problem with magnesium is that it really only has two possible oxidation states. It can be free magnesium, with an oxidation number of 0, or it can have a valence of +2. In the above reaction, where it converts from an oxide to a chloride, it can't be zero, so it has to be +2 the whole time. There's no other option for it.
This is because magnesium only has two electrons in its valence shell, and it's kind of an all or none proposition when it comes to using them in chemical bonds. I suppose a +1 valence might be possible for magnesium under certain conditions, but +2 is much more comfortable for it. In any event, +4 simply won't work, because it doesn't have enough valence electrons to give up for that.
Manganese has more options, because it has a d-subshell just beneath its outermost electron shell. These d-electrons can participate in chemical bonding depending on the situation. Under the right conditions manganese can have an oxidation state from anywhere between -3 and +7, although some of these are rather unlikely.
And some of these oxidation states are more stable for manganese than others. As an oxide, manganese (IV) is the best choice, but when manganese bonds with chlorine, it's more stable as manganese (II). So when you add HCl to manganese (IV) oxide, it reduces the manganese to a lower oxidation state. This means something else has to oxidize to a higher oxidation state, and that something else in this case is chlorine.
But with magnesium, none of this is possible. No d-subshell, no multiple oxidation states, no redox reaction with HCl, no chlorine. Sure, magnesium might be reduced from +2 down to 0, and become a free metal, but hydrochloric acid isn't a strong enough reducing agent to make that happen. Reducing manganese from +4 to +2 is an easier job.
All right, enough about manganese. It's different from magnesium, we get it. We're here to talk about chlorine. Let's get back to Scheele's paper.
Now, you may remember the title "Kungliga Svenska Vetenskapsakademiens Handlingar" from the post I wrote about Cronstedt's discovery of nickel in 1751. My problem then was that I had no way to obtain an English translation of the paper, and I had to rely on one of Cronstedt's later works that was translated into English.
Fortunately, Carl Wilhelm Scheele is a bit more prominent among 18th Century chemists. His papers were collected and translated into English by the year of his death in 1786. If you're interested, the title of the collection is "The Chemical Essays of Charles William Scheele". I don't know why they had to Anglicize his name, but there it is.
For some reason, the title of his manganese paper is different in the book as well: "On Manganese, Manganesium, or Magnesia Vitrariorum." My guess is that one of the English editors wanted a title that reflected more current terminology for manganese, since Scheele himself helped phase out the name "magnesia negra". By 1800, readers might not have recognized the term. Anyway, it's on page 52-105 of the book if you're following along at home. That's page 89 of the .pdf copy, since it opens with a preface and a long biography. Section VI is the part we want:
SECTION VI. EFFECTS OF COMMON MURIATIC ACID.
(a) I poured 1 oz. of purified muriatic acid upon half an ounce of levigated manganese. This acid, after standing quiet for an hour's time, grew dark brown. A portion of this solution was digested in an open glass vessel in heat. It yielded a smell like warm aqua regia. In a quarter of an hour the smell was gone, and the solution became clear and colourless.
To clarify, "manganese" refers to manganese dioxide. "Levigated" means "powdered", and "muriatic acid" is an old name for hydrochloric acid.
From his description, it seems to me that the manganese dioxide simply dissolved in the acid at first, turning it brown. Things didn't really get rolling until Scheele heated the solution, and that's when he noticed the smell, which he compared to warm aqua regia.
So you might well ask what aqua regia is. "Aqua regia" is an old alchemical term derived from the Latin words for "king's water" or "royal water". In modern terms, it's a mixture of one part nitric acid and three parts hydrochloric acid. The interesting thing about this mixture is that it can dissolve gold, producing a gold salt, hydrogen aurichloride. This was a big deal to alchemists, because they revered gold for its resistance to corrosion. Hydrochloric acid on it's own can't react with gold at all, and neither will nitric acid. But the combination of the two in that 3:1 ratio does the trick. So the alchemists gave the mixture a regal-sounding name to fit its seemingly miraculous power over gold.
As you might imagine, any reagent that can act upon an inert substance like gold must be very reactive. The two acids used to make aqua regia are colorless, but when you mix them together, they react to produce an orange color. Indeed, aqua regia doesn't last very long, so if you're planning to dissolve some gold, you don't want to dawdle. Aqua regia's decomposition plays out according to the following reaction:
HNO3 + 3HCl → NOCl + Cl2 + 2H2O
NOCl is nitrosyl chloride, a yellow gas that decomposes to nitrogen dioxide, a reddish brown gas. So it's this reaction that gives aqua regia its vivid color.
Now let's look at this reaction a little more closely. You're adding an excess of hydrochloric acid to something, and you get chlorine gas back. Sounds familiar, doesn't it? Let me put them side by side just to make it completely clear.
In the first reaction, nitric acid oxidizes hydrochloric acid into chlorine. In the second reaction, manganese dioxide does the same thing. So Scheele wasn't fooling when he said his experiment smelled like warm aqua regia, because it was producing one of the very same gases.
But of course, aqua regia produces a second gas, nitrosyl chloride, along with the chlorine. So that's why the alchemists who worked with aqua regia never discovered chlorine this way. They could generate the gas and notice the odor, but they couldn't isolate it. Scheele had found an oxidizing agent that didn't produce any other gaseous byproducts, so when he added HCl to it, he could obtain chlorine gas in isolation.
So what did Scheele think about all of this? Remember, he did this work in the 1770's, before concepts like "redox", "d-electron", "oxidation state", or even "hydrochloric acid" were available. What was his interpretation of the results?
Scheele, like everyone else at the time, subscribed to the phlogiston theory, which explained combustion as a chemical transfer of a hypothetical substance called phlogiston from fuel to the air.
It can be helpful to think of phlogiston as "bizarro oxygen", although this analogy doesn't hold up all the time. What we today might call "oxygen-rich", Scheele would have called "phlogiston-poor", and vice-versa. When you set a fire, you weren't adding oxygen to the wood, you were releasing phlogiston that had been trapped within the wood. The air wasn't supplying oxygen to the fire, it was absorbing the phlogiston that evolved from the flames.
The advantage of the phlogiston theory was that it recognized a sort of economics in chemical reactions. A certain something is lost by one reactant and taken up by another. Wood can't burn by itself; it needs air to complete the transaction. Chemists didn't understand what the coin of exchange was in these transactions, so they invented “phlogiston” just so they could give it a name.
This is an important thing to understand about how science works. Sometimes you just don't have all the answers, but that doesn't mean you can't think about the questions. You can use placeholder concepts and approximations to wrap your head around the idea. Once oxygen was recognized, scientists realized that they had the right idea, but the transactions were going in the wrong direction. For a time, chemists understood oxygen to be the coin of exchange, and when that didn't quite work out, they used oxidation numbers to correlate their understanding with the behavior of other elements. Eventually electrons were found to be the real movers and shakers behind chemical reactions, but Scheele couldn't wait that long.
So Scheele explained the reaction in terms of phlogiston. Manganese dioxide, or "magnesia negra" as he would have called it, was poor in phlogiston. He would have known this because roasting it in a furnace would have had no effect on it. Oxygen atoms in the air would have no reason to join mangesia negra, because it's already got a bunch of oxygen atoms in its structure. So it's de-phlogisticated.
Meanwhile, hydrochloric acid, or "muriatic acid" or "spirits of salt" to Scheele, was capable of reacting with this dephlogisticated material. This must have meant that the HCl possessed phlogiston, and it was able to pass that phlogiston into the magnesia negra.
To put it another way, the manganese chloride was what happened when "magnesia negra" absorbed some phlogiston. The other product, chlorine gas, had to have been the muriatic acid, now stripped of its phlogiston.
And this is where the phlogiston theory started to get too complicated for its own good. It had originated as a way to explain combustion, and why it depended upon air. It was possible to extend it to explain why animals breathe, and why metal rusts.
But by the 1760's chemists were trying to apply phlogiston to acid-base chemistry. Henry Cavendish discovered hydrogen by examining the gas evolved when hydrochloric acid was added to metals like iron or zinc. It made sense to him that the reaction released phlogiston from the metal just as fire released phlogiston from wood. We still think of acids as "burning" things today. It was a good analogy, but there's a big difference between burning a piece of wood in open air, and submerging a piece of metal in a solution of acid. Chemists were so fond of lumping reactions together under the phlogiston theory that they neglected to consider the important differences between them.
Cavendish's error in his hydrogen discovery was to conclude that it had come from the metal. In fact, it had been released from the acid he had used. But he knew metals contained a lot of phlogiston, and hydrogen contained a lot of phlogiston because it burned so readily, so he put two and two together and got five.
What Scheele discovered was that acids can contain phlogiston too. In Section XXIII of his manganese paper he wrote:
In this case, perhaps, it does not immediately appear whence manganese should obtain its phlogiston; no phlogiston being added here, and the entire solution taking place without heat. There occurs, indeed, here a circumstance, which certainly proves that muriatic acid contains some phlogiston; a property which one should have attributed to the nitrous acid, chemists having been of opinion that this principle was present in a pretty large quantity, as one of its constituent parts. But this we now reverse, and attribute phlogiston to the muriatic acid.
I think part of Scheele's point here was to overturn the idea that nitric acid was the source of any phlogiston chemistry in aqua regia. He could add muriatic acid to magnesia negra and get the same smell that aqua regia produced. So if there was any phlogiston involved in either situation, it had to be coming from the muriatic acid.
He was essentially saying to Cavendish, "Whoa whoa whoa, buddy. Hydrogen's phlogiston doesn't come from metal, it comes from the acid you use on the metal."
Except that doesn't make sense. If chemical reactions require phlogiston to flow from one reactant to another, how did Cavendish isolate hydrogen at all? He would have added HCl to iron filings and nothing should have happened, because both of them contained phlogiston. Why should either one of them react with the other?
This was where the analogy began to break down. Phlogiston theory was useful, but only up to a certain point. Beyond that point, chemistry was simply too complex to be reduced to a single kind of reaction. There were too many nuances that simply couldn’t be classified as “phlogisticated” or “de-phlogisticated”.
But Scheele was a die-hard phlogiston advocate. Ironically, his own research helped overturn the phlogiston theory once and for all, but he refused to accept it. In spite of this stubbornness, he was still able to explain chlorine.
Think of it like this. Let's suppose muriatic acid contains phlogiston, as Scheele proposed. It reacts with oxidizers to release chlorine, which Scheele called "dephlogisticated muriatic acid".
Now we know that muriatic acid is HCl. Pluck off the hydrogen, and you just have Cl, chlorine. And hydrogen is.... flammable, so it contains phlogiston according to the theory. So you can make the argument that by removing hydrogen from muriatic acid, you're dephlogisticating it. So Scheele’s name wasn't entirely unjustified.
Things became confused later on, because when oxygen theory took hold, chemists began to look back at every reference to phlogiston and interpret it as a literal absence of oxygen. Thus, "dephlogisticated muriatic acid" became renamed as "oxidized muriatic acid".
This led to the misconception that chlorine gas was actually a compound of oxygen and some other element. To be sure, chlorine certainly fit the part. It attacks metals and bleaches colored cloth, just like you'd expect an oxidizer or a "dephlogisticated" material to behave.
What confused the early oxygen theorists was that oxygen didn't hold a monopoly on oxidation. Oxygen reacts the way it does because it craves electrons, a property we now call electronegativity. So any element can behave like oxygen if it's surrounded by elements with lower electronegativity. Oxygen just gets the most press because it's so abundant, so it usually wins any electronegativity contest. But chlorine is right after oxygen, so it's a powerful oxidizer in its own right.
Of course, even if chlorine had been an oxygen compound, there should have been some way to reduce it and discover a new element, but no one ever succeeded. By 1807, Sir Humphrey Davy finally concluded that chlorine could not be reduced because it was an element in and of itself, and he was the one who gave it the name chlorine. This viewpoint took a while to catch on, but when iodine was discovered in 1811, the tide began to turn. Iodine exhibited many of the same chemical properties as chlorine, without all the baggage that came from being discovered in the Phlogiston Era. If iodine could be an element, then it only made sense to accept chlorine as well.
I find Davy’s choice of name to be fitting. “Chlorine” was derived from the Greek word χλωρός (chloros), which means pale-green or yellowish-green. This same Greek word was used to describe the steed ridden by the Horseman of Death in Revelation 6:8. A few decades later, another chemist, Fritz Haber, would devise a way to deploy chlorine gas as a weapon, thereby inventing chemical warfare.
But in a more positive sense, chlorine also represented the beginning of the end for the phlogiston theory, which was really one of the last great ideas of alchemy. Phlogiston theory was helpless to adequately explain the various characteristics of hydrogen, carbon dioxide, and nitrogen. Now this fourth gas rides in with a completely different set of properties. The theory held on a while longer, but the writing was on the wall...
[Above: I couldn’t find a decent image to use, but then I realized that any photograph taken in the earth’s atmosphere has a bunch of nitrogen in it. I’m the best scientist ever.]
Nitrogen was discovered by Daniel Rutherford in 1772. But there are few caveats I need to add to this statement. Rutherford didn't name his discovery "nitrogen". That came later. He also didn't identify nitrogen as a pure substance. To him, it was ordinary air saturated with something else. And if we really want to get down to it, Rutherford wasn't the first person to isolate nitrogen.
Nevertheless he was the first to publish his discovery, and it ultimately did turn out to be an element, and it was eventually given the name "nitrogen", so we say “Daniel Rutherford discovered nitrogen in 1772.” But if you went back in time and talked to him about how he removed all the oxygen from air to isolate a new chemical element, you'd only confuse him.
Gas chemistry was still a new field in the 1770's. It began with the discovery of carbon dioxide by Jan Baptiste van Helmont in the previous century. He noticed that the "air" produced by fermentation wouldn't support a flame the way atmospheric air did. He later captured the same gas in an experiment involving burning charcoal, and he realized they were the same thing. Helmont named it "spiritus sylvestre", and coined the term "gas" to refer to substances resembling air. Later, Joseph Black rediscovered carbon dioxide when he produced it by subjecting limestone to acids or heat. Black named it "fixed air", because carbon dioxide could be contained in solid substances in the form of carbonate salts, and it could be re-captured by bases such as potassium hydroxide. In 1766, Henry Cavendish discovered hydrogen when he realized that the gas evolved from adding certain acids to metals was distinct from air or carbon dioxide.
So this brought the total number of known gases to three:
Air, the stuff the atmosphere is made of. Fire can't burn without it.
Fixed Air (carbon dioxide). Non-flammable. When bubbled through limewater, it turns the solution milky white.
Inflammable Air (hydrogen). Flammable.
Of course, we now know air to be a mixture of several gases, chiefly nitrogen and oxygen. We might suppose that 18th Century chemists could have easily separated and identified these two gases, since one supports combustion, and the other doesn't. The catch was that 18th Century chemists were still getting a handle on just what combustion was, and just what the air had to do with it.
The dominant theory of the time involved a hypothetical substance called phlogiston. The idea was that flammable substances burned because they contained a great deal of phlogiston, and fire represented the chemical release of this phlogiston into the air. When the phlogiston in the fuel is exhausted, or when the air can no longer absorb any more, the fire goes out.
There are a lot of problems with the phlogiston theory, but it still provided a very useful model to explain chemical phenomena. Phlogiston explained why some substances were more flammable than others. It explained why fires depended on fresh air to burn. Phlogiston connected combustion with other air-dependent reactions, such as the respiration of animals, the rusting of iron, and the rotting of old fruit.
What it could not explain, however, was the unique role that air played in combustion. According to the theory, the more phlogiston a body contained, the more flammable it was. By this logic, air that had absorbed a lot of phlogiston ought to become flammable as well. You would need to expose it to fresh air so the phlogiston could have somewhere to go, and maybe it would have to be heated to get it going, but there ought to be a flame, right?
But no. "Phlogisticated air" couldn't burn any more than fresh air could. A defender of the theory might suggest that the air's unique nature allowed it to disperse phlogiston so that it couldn't react the way it did when concentrated in solid or liquid fuel. That might have satisfied critics in the early 18th Century, but by the 1770's air wasn't so unique anymore. Now there was carbon dioxide and hydrogen to think about. They were "airs" too, but they didn't absorb phlogiston like atmospheric air was supposed to do.
One could have argued that carbon dioxide was phlogiston itself, since Helmont showed it was the only product of burning charcoal. It didn't burn, but maybe that was because it had been changed somehow as it was released from the charcoal. But hydrogen did burn, so it must contain phlogiston just like charcoal, but in a gaseous form. But burning hydrogen doesn't produce carbon dioxide like burning charcoal does. It produces water. Wait, what? Does that mean water is phlogiston? Wait, no, it can't be, because charcoal doesn't produce water when it burns. Then again, a burning candle produces both carbon dioxide and water. Hoo boy.
The originators of the phlogiston theory never had to worry about how phlogiston behaved in different gases because they only had one gas to think about at the time, and it was air. As new gases were discovered, and as analytical techniques were improved and refined, phlogiston became harder and harder to explain.
For example, Joseph Black found that if he burned a carbon-based material in an enclosed space, he could remove the carbon dioxide that was generated using potassium hydroxide.
CxHy + air ---> 2xCO2 + yH2O + ???
CO2 + H2O + ??? + KOH ---> KHCO3 + H2O + ???
But there would still be gas left behind. What was it? He turned the investigation over to Daniel Rutherford, suggesting that it could be the premise of his doctoral dissertation.
Rutherford published the outcome of his research on September 12, 1772, under the title Dissertatio inauguralis de aere fixo dicto, aut mephitic. Apparently the dissertation is extant and even translated into English, but I regret to say that I haven't been able to find a copy online, at least not without having to register to some sketchy-looking website. Fortunately, the gist of it is described in Mary Elvira Weeks' "Discovery of the Elements".
Rutherford first put a mouse in a container of air, and kept it there until it died. When he measured the volume of air left in the container, it was one-sixteenth less than what he had started with. He took the remaining portion and removed its carbon dioxide content, using a base such as potassium hydroxide. He measured the volume again, and found that it had decreased by one-eleventh. So this leaves about 85% of the volume he had started with.
Now, let me back up and explain how Rutherford could measure changes in volume like this. Of course, I don't know exactly how he went about it, because I haven't read his paper, but I did read Henry Cavendish's paper on hydrogen. Well, I skimmed it anyway. It's pretty dry stuff. The point is Cavendish described his apparatus for measuring gases very clearly, and I think it's safe to assume Rutherford employed similar means.
See, it's a little silly for me to say that Rutherford measured the volume of a container before and after a mouse asphyxiated in it. The container's volume would be unchanged. Rutherford could have evacuated the container of all air and the volume still would have been unchanged.
Now, the mouse absorbed some of the gas into its body, certainly. But the remaining gas would have expanded to fill the container. That's how gases behave. So what does it mean to say the gas lost a sixteenth or an eleventh of its volume? The volume's going to stay the same, right?
Rutherford would have understood this, because even though gas chemistry was new in his day, it wasn't brand new. About a hundred years earlier, Robert Boyle had established the relationship known as Boyle's law, which held that (at constant temperature) the pressure of a gas decreases as its volume increases. In Rutherford's experiment, the amount of air in the container was reduced, and the remaining portion had to increase in volume to fill the container. Boyle's law demands that the pressure of the gas inside the container must decrease accordingly. So the gas left in the container must have been at a lower pressure than the atmosphere outside. If Rutherford had opened a valve on his container, he might have heard a hiss as air from the outside rushed in to balance out the lower pressure on the inside. But this would have defeated the purpose of the experiment, so I'm sure he wouldn't have been so careless.
So how would he have measured the amount of gas left over? Boyle's law works both ways. By restoring the original pressure, the volume of the gas would be reduced, and an observer could compare the volumes and correlate them with the amount of gas particles. Rutherford could have turned his container upside down and submerging it in a body of water. He could then open the container and the atmosphere would force water inside until his gas sample was compressed enough to match the pressure. Now the gas sample's volume would be standardized to the atmospheric pressure, just as it had been when he sealed the mouse inside in the beginning. By measuring the volume of water that entered his container, he could see just how much gas the mouse had consumed before it died.
Of course, Rutherford may well have used another liquid, such as oil or mercury, but the principle would have been the same. At constant temperature, a quantity of gas may exert all sorts of pressures or occupy all sorts of volumes, but if you control one, you can use the other to measure the amount.
So Rutherford was able to remove about 15% of the air's contents. Knowing the composition of the atmosphere, we have a pretty good idea of what he would have had left over. If we ignore the humidity, his sample would have started off as follows:
So Rutherford's mouse consumed about three-quarters of the available oxygen. The remaining oxygen simply wasn't enough to keep it alive, so it died. Whatever carbon dioxide the mouse exhaled was removed by the alkali treatment. So the portion left over would then break down like so:
Of course, Rutherford didn't know this was what he had. Oxygen and methane wouldn't be recognized for several more years, and the noble gases wouldn't be discovered for another century. This wasn't about purifying a new element. Rutherford was simply trying to cram as much phlogiston into the air as possible, while cleansing it of any "fixed air" that happened to be present.
But there was still about seven percent oxygen in the sample whether Rutherford understood it or not, and so he found that a candle would still burn in it, even if it didn't burn very brightly. Even when the flame died out, the wick continued to glow. So a mouse alone wasn't enough to get the job done.
Ultimately, Rutherford turned to phosphorus, which reacts with oxygen in the air at room temperature. Phosphorus solved several problems at once.
1) Unlike a mouse or a candle, phosphorus would consume all of the oxygen in the container, without producing any carbon dioxide.
2) Phosphorus would react with oxygen unaided, so Rutherford didn't have to worry about unpredictable variables, like a bad candle wick, or a mouse that was about to die of old age or whatever.
3) Phosphorus glows when it reacts to oxygen, so Rutherford could just turn off the lights and wait for it to go dark to know it was completely consumed. Then he could just keep adding fresh phosphorus until it stopped glowing.
4) The product of phosphorus combustion is phosphorus pentoxide, which is an excellent drying agent. So not only would it remove oxygen from the air sample, it would also absorb any moisture present as well.
In theory, Rutherford would have produced a gas sample composed of 98.8% nitrogen, with the rest being trace amounts of the noble gases. Again, Rutherford himself didn't know that's what he was doing. The irony is that he's only credited with discovering nitrogen because his experiment just happened to result in a nearly pure nitrogen sample. If our atmosphere contained 35% nitrogen and 43% argon, Rutherford's experiment would have produced a nitrogen-argon mixture that some later scientist would have to separate. Rutherford would have still made an important contribution to science, but he wouldn't have discovered an element. And that probably wouldn't have bothered him, since that wasn't his objective in the first place.
Rutherford named this gas "noxious air", since it had been completely stripped of whatever quality kept animals alive. If you put a mouse in this stuff, it'd suffocate immediately. In terms of the phlogiston theory, this was air that had been saturated with all the phlogiston that it could possibly hold.
Or was it? Remember, Rutherford's "noxious air" occupied less volume than the atmospheric air he started with. If the burning phosphorus had donated phlogiston to it, then shouldn't the "noxious air" increase in volume? Should it not increase in mass as well? And what about the phosphorus? How much weight did it gain or lose from all of this? Either Rutherford didn't pause to consider these questions, or he was too focused on earning his doctorate to defy the scientific conventions of his time. Phlogiston theory ruled the day, and so Rutherford couched his discovery in the context of that theory. "Noxious air" was super-phlogisticated air, rather than the portion of air which did not support combustion.
So what about the other would-be discoverers of nitrogen? Why does Rutherford get the credit and they don't? Let's take a look.
According to Weeks in "Discovery of the Elements", the Swedish chemist Carl Wilhelm Scheele obtained nitrogen in much the same way as Rutherford, except he "liver of sulfur" to absorb the oxygen in his air sample. This was a name given to a mixture of potassium/sulfur compounds, including potassium sulfide, potassium thiosulfate, and potassium bisulfide. Each of these would react with oxygen to form potassium sulfate, thereby trapping the oxygen in a solid form and removing it from the gas. Weeks also says he used a mixture of sulfur and iron filings, which might have formed iron sulfide if mixed thoroughly enough, and I suppose it would have reacted with oxygen in a similar way. I don't know exactly when Scheele carried out this experiment, but he probably did it just after Rutherford, or he was too slow publishing his work.
Henry Cavendish, the discoverer of hydrogen, was notoriously shy and reluctant to publish his research until he had completely satisfied his curiosity. He gets the credit for discovering hydrogen because he published it, but when he isolated nitrogen, he decided to keep it under wraps.
Cavendish called nitrogen "burnt air", which he prepared by passing air over red-hot charcoal, then over potassium hydroxide to remove the carbon dioxide. Personally, I think Rutherford's phosphorus method is the best. All three chemists used the same basic idea of trapping the oxygen in solid form. But Cavendish's charcoal had to be heated to get every last bit of oxygen, and Scheele's sulfide wouldn't give much indication of when the reaction was finished. On the other hand, phosphorus would glow for as long as oxygen remained to react with it, and it worked at room temperature, so Rutherford didn't have to make the experiment more complicated.
Nonetheless, Cavendish prepared his "burnt air" well before Rutherford's "noxious air". We know this, because he wrote it up in a paper from before 1772, but he only communicated his work to his colleague Joseph Priestly. I presume Priestly performed his own experiments in preparing "burnt air", but Rutherford apparently was unaware. So maybe Priestly was too slow to publish as well. The moral of the story is that if you discover something cool, you need to let people know.
As for the name, "noxious air" wasn't recognized as a single substance until oxygen's discovery and the overthrow of phlogiston theory. This was brought about by the French chemist Antoine Lavoisier, who recognized "noxious air" as an element. He renamed it "azote", which comes from the Greek word for "lifeless". Lavoisier was trying to do away with old, imprecise terminology, and he probably felt that terms like "noxious air", "inflammable air", and "fixed air" were misleading. Nitrogen wasn't a type of air, it was a component of the atmospheric air, and calling it "azote" helped reinforce the distinction.
The name "nitrogen" was finally coined in 1790 by another French chemist, Jean-Antoine Chaptal. By then, azote was found to be one of the elements present in nitric acid and nitrate salts. Chaptal renamed the element to reflect this, perhaps because he felt "azote" was still too imprecise. There were plenty of chemicals that were anathema to living organisms, after all. But only "nitrogen" could generate niter.
[Above: Digital mosaic of the planet Saturn, assembled by Mattias Malmer from over one hundred photographs taken by the Cassini spacecraft in 2004. A larger version is available here. Saturn is composed of 96.3% hydrogen by volume, which is convenient if you want to put a photograph of an invisible gas on your blog entry.]
Henry Cavendish discovered hydrogen in 1766. But he didn't name it 'hydrogen'. And he wasn't the first person to observe it. So as I cover how he made his discovery, I need to explain just why he deserves the credit.
By 1766, almost every chemical element discovered had been solid at room temperature. The sole exception was mercury, which is a liquid at room temperature. By Cavendish's day, no gaseous elements had been recognized, and this hadn't really bothered anyone, because:
a) The concept of "gas" was still fairly new.
b) The concept of "element" was practically nonexistent.
For thousands of years, the closest thing anyone had to gas chemistry was the notion of air as one of the classical elements, alongside fire, earth, and water. This four-element system dominated alchemical thought for centuries, mainly because no one seemed to have a better idea. In theory, everything was composed of a combination of all four elements in a certain proportion. This explained the great variety of substances in nature, since there were an unlimited number of possible "recipes". As for the air itself, it was assumed to be a uniform material. Being an element, it couldn't be a mixture of anything simpler. So the idea of multiple gases would have been nonsensical to ancient and medieval thinkers.
Still, the four-element system implied that air participated in chemical reactions, since it was supposed to unite with the other three elements to produce every other substance. The ancients surely understood this, but only to a certain extent. A fire needs fresh air to burn, and animals will suffocate and die unless they are allowed to breathe.
The problem was that air was pretty much everywhere all the time, and there wasn't any good way to perform an experiment in the absence of air. For instance, you can immerse a burning stick into water or bury it in dirt, and the flame will go out. But did the flame die from the absence of air, or from the sudden presence of water or earth? It would have been impossible to be sure, because there all of nature seemed to be occupied by at least one of the three.
This was where the idea of plenism originated. The ancient Greek philosophers couldn't conceive of any way for an empty space to exist in nature, because some matter would rush in to fill it. Plenism comes from a Latin word meaning "fullness", and the idea is also known as "horror vacui", which is Latin for "fear of an empty space". The idea is also known by the expression "Nature abhors a vacuum."
Armed with this idea, the ancient philosophers came up with a fifth element, aether, which served as an interstellar medium. Aether was the stuff the stars and planets floated in, because they had to float in something, or otherwise the resulting vacuum would pull the stars apart, and suck the Earth's atmosphere into space. What the ancients didn't understand was that gravity holds bodies like the Earth and stars together, and so the universe can be explained without an interstellar medium like aether.
That didn't mean the problem was unsolvable. The turning point came when the Flemish physician Jan Baptiste van Helmont (1580-1644) discovered carbon dioxide. Unfortunately, I can't determine just when he did this, but I'll explain how he did it.
Put simply, van Helmont was ahead of his time when it came to careful observation and accurate measurements. They didn't have graduated cylinders and electronic balances in the 17th Century, and the need for accurate measures wasn't necessarily appreciated in van Helmont's era. According to "The Story of Chemistry" by N.C. Dalta, van Helmont first noticed carbon dioxide as it bubbled out of a brewery during fermentation.
As we know today, fermentation is a process by which yeast or bacteria digest sugar, producing alcohol and carbon dioxide. The brewers of the 17th century didn't know why it worked; they were just grateful that it did. In the entire history of the alcholic beverage industry, it was van Helmont who decided to take a closer look at the "air" bubbling out of the fermentation process. One way or another he gathered a volume of it in a flask and stoppered it. He then rather foolishly heated the stoppered flask to see what would happen, and the flask exploded from the pressure increase. Because of this violent outcome, he named the gas "spiritus sylvestre", or "wild spirit". Personally, I think that's a little unfair, since any sealed vessel of gas would have done the same thing under those conditions, but van Helmont was exploring unfamiliar territory.
In a much safer experiment, van Helmont burned 62 pounds of charcoal and recovered only 1 pound of ash. As we know today, charcoal is almost completely pure carbon, and the one pound of ash represented whatever impurities has been present in van Helmont's sample. The key thing here was that he was careful to record the weights, and to consider what they meant. 61 pounds doesn't just vanish into nothing, and van Helmont realized that the fire had converted it into something like air. He called it "spirit of the wood", because "spirit" was a term alchemists had used to refer to gaseous components obtained from their experiments.
See, the alchemists were very familiar with "spirits". Volatile chemicals like alcohol and ammonium salts were known for a very long time. With enough heat, you could convert these kinds of substances into wisps of gas, but upon cooling, they'd eventually condense back into solids or liquids. But "spirit of wood" wouldn't condense. Neither would "spiritus sylvestre". They were more like the air than any "spirit".
But at the same time, they were very different from the air. Eventually van Helmont found that bubbling "spirit of wood" through limewater (a dilute calcium hydroxide solution) would give it a milky color. In modern notation:
Ca(OH)2(aq) + CO2(g) → CaCO3(ppt) + H2O(l)
In other words, the carbon dioxide reacts with the lime in the water, forming calcium carbonate, which forms a suspension of white precipitate in the water. This reaction is still used by chemists to test for the presence of carbon dioxide to this day.
Using this test, van Helmont was able to show that "spirit of wood" and the "wild spirit" produced from breweries were one and the same. Moreover, he could show that ordinary air would not produce the same effect on limewater, so "wild spirit" was a distinct substance. This led van Helmont to coin the term "gas" to distinguish between atmospheric air and other substances which resembled it.
Now, I say this was the turning point in humanity's understanding of gas chemistry, but there was still a long way to go. Despite his discovery of carbon dioxide, van Helmont still missed the wider implications. His most famous experiment involved carefully weighing a willow tree before and after its growth over a five year period of carefully controlled conditions. At the beginning, the tree weighed five pounds, and he planted it in 200 pounds of oven-dried soil. For five years, the tree was watered, and nothing more. At the end of the five years, the tree weighed 169 pounds. He dried the soil in an oven once again and reweighed it, only to find that it weighed just a few ounces short of the original weight of 200 pounds. His conclusion was that the tree may have absorbed a small amount of its mass from the soil, but virtually all of the weight it had gained had come from the water. In short:
tree + water ----> bigger tree.
The tree experiment is considered a classic, because van Helmont was so meticulous and logical in conducting it, and because he demonstrated that plants don't metabolize soil to grow. But his conclusion failed to reckon with the air, or the carbon dioxide he himself had discovered. As we know today, van Helmont's willow absorbed carbon dioxide from the air, and used sunlight to photosynthesize the chemicals it would use to grow larger.
Nevertheless, van Helmont used his experiment to support his assertion that the four-element system was wrong, and there were only two elements: air and water. This idea was just as specious, but it showed that scientists were beginning to question the classical element model, and defiance was yielding more useful results than blind acceptance.
A decade after van Helmont's death, the German scientist Otto von Guericke (1602-1686) invented a vacuum pump. In 1656, he demonstrated the power of atmospheric pressure in the famous Magdeburg hemispheres experiment. Two copper hemispheres were held together and the air inside was evacuated by Guericke's pump. With no air inside, there was nothing to push back against the air pressure on the outside, and so the two hemispheres were held together by the atmosphere. The force holding them together was so great that not even the combined strength of sixteen horses was enough to pull them apart. You can watch a modern re-enactment of the experiment here.
Guericke's work soon attracted the attention of the English chemist Robert Boyle (1627-1691), who worked with Robert Hooke (1635-1703) to build their own vacuum pump, which Boyle used to conduct a wide variety of different experiments. Among other things, Boyle's pneumatic research produced the relationship that came to be known as Boyle's law: The pressure of a gas tends to decrease as its volume increases.
Then we have to flash forward to the 18th Century, when the British chemist Joseph Black (1728-1799) rediscovered carbon dioxide in 1755. Apparently van Helmont's work had been overlooked, but as I had said earlier, even van Helmont himself didn't see the big picture of what his "spiritus sylvestre" meant. Black found carbon dioxide from a completely different source than van Helmont. For his doctoral thesis, Black researched magnesia alba, a white mineral composed of magnesium oxide and magnesium carbonate. In Black's day, magnesia alba was something of a wonder drug, and Black's research was able to shed some light on its medicinal properties. It formed an alkaline solution in water, and so it made a good antacid to settle the stomach.
What Black found out was that magnesia alba reacts to acids very much the same way as chalk (calcium carbonate). Both substances produced a gas which could turn limewater milky or extinguish a flame. Further, Black determined that this same gas could be found in the fermentation process, and in the breath of animals.
Although he recognized this was the same gas van Helmont had named "spiritus sylvestre", he renamed it "fixed air". This name referenced the fact that it would be absorbed by strong bases and "fixed" into a solid substance. For example, if you leave sodium hydroxide sitting around long enough, it will absorb carbon dioxide from the atmosphere and form sodium bicarbonate:
NaOH + CO2 ---→ NaHCO3
In other words, just as acids liberated carbon dioxide from minerals, so too could bases capture (or fix) carbon dioxide to reverse the process. This is an important distinction, because ordinary air could not be fixed in this way.
And so we finally get around to Henry Cavendish in 1766. Cavendish was born to an aristocratic family in 1731. His father, Lord Charles Cavendish, was also involved in the sciences, and by 1757 he was vice-president of the Royal Society, and recipient of the Copely award for his work with thermometers. The following year, he began bringing Henry along to Royal Society functions, and Henry was elected to membership in 1760.
Henry didn't publish many papers in his lifetime, apparently because he was something of a perfectionist, and didn't feel comfortable submitting a paper on a topic until he felt he had explored the matter completely. This may have been connected to his notorious shyness, or perhaps he just didn't feel much urgency to share his work. Long after his death, James Clerk Maxwell went through his personal files and found all sorts of ideas and discoveries which later scientists had made independently. Well, at least he wrote them down for posterity.
Fortunately for chemistry, he didn’t conceal his experiments with hydrogen gas, which he reported in his very first publication. It was entitled "Three Papers, containing Experiments on factitious Air," included in the journal Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society, 1766, volume 56, pages 141-184.
Cavendish used the term "factitious air" to describe any such gases that could be liberated from non-gaseous materials, which he described as being in an "unelastic state". One of these was "fixed air", carbon dioxide, which he discussed in the second and third of the three papers. But the first paper dealt with what he called "inflammable air." It begins:
"I know of only three metallic substances, namely zinc, iron and tin, that generate inflammable air by solution in acids; and those only by solution in the diluted vitriolic acid, or spirit of salt."
This is a very simple reaction, the sort of thing demonstrated in high school chemistry laboratories. “Vitriolic acid” is what they used to call sulfuric acid. “Spirit of salt” is hydrochloric acid. In general terms, adding metal to either of these acids will produce a metal salt and hydrogen gas.
2M + 2HX —> 2MX + H2
I don't know how many metals and acids Cavendish worked with, but zinc, iron, and tin were among the most reactive metals available at the time. Platinum and gold don't react with either acid whatsoever. The rest may have reacted, but too slowly to produce a visible stream of hydrogen bubbles. I would have expected cobalt or nickel to work well for this, but they were recent discoveries and it's likely that Cavendish wasn't able to get ahold of any samples.
On the other hand, Cavendish did try some other acids, and found them to be wanting. Acetic acid is a weaker acid compared to sulfuric and hydrochloric. It would react with iron or zinc, but not as vigorously as the others. Cavendish also used nitric acid (which he called "nitrous"), but this acid is also an oxidizing agent, in addition to being a strong acid. I haven't found a definitive equation for metal reacting with nitric acid, but my understanding is that this would produce some nitrogen oxides. Cavendish reported observing a gas in this case, but it wasn't flammable.
Cavendish interpreted this reaction in the context of the phlogiston theory, which the chemists of his era had used to explain combustion. Oxygen had yet to be discovered, so according to the phlogiston theory, when an object burned, it wasn't combining with oxygen in the air. Instead, it was thought to be releasing a hypothetical substance into the air, and this hypothetical substance was named phlogiston. By the theory, a metal like zinc was actually a chemical compound made of of zinc oxide and phlogiston. When you refined zinc oxide to obtain metallic zinc, the phlogiston theory held that you were infusing the oxide with phlogiston, thereby transforming it into the metal.
When Cavendish put zinc in hydrochloric acid, he saw hydrogen bubbles effervesce from the zinc. He decided that the reaction was driving the phlogiston out of the zinc, turning into a zinc salt. The phlogiston was unchanged by the acid, and it somehow formed the inflammable air. Alternately the inflammable air could have been viewed as being phlogiston itself, but Cavendish seems to have stopped short of that claim.
Nonetheless, it made sense to think of hydrogen as a substance rich in phlogiston. By the theory, the higher the phlogiston content, the more flammable the material. Phlogiston was also thought to be extremely light, and some chemists even suggested that it might have "negative weight". This was to help explain holes in the theory. Of course, today the phlogiston theory has been swept aside, but we can't blame Cavendish for relying upon it.
Nor can we blame Cavendish for mistakenly assuming the inflammable air came from the metal, as opposed to the acid. When you watch the reaction take place, what you see are tiny bubbles forming on the metal surface. So one might well assume that the hydrogen had been trapped inside the metal all along, and the acid was enabling it to escape. In reality, the bubbles form on the metal surface because that's the interface between the metal and the acid it's reacting with. The hydrogen bubbles have to form there, because that's where the reactants meet. That's where the reaction happens.
So to be clear, Cavendish didn't fully understand what he had. Hydrogen is an element, but his best guess in 1766 was that it was a chemical compound, mostly made up of phlogiston, and it was extracted from certain metals on exposure to certain acids.
Now, as I said before, Cavendish probably wasn't the first person to dip a piece of iron in sulfuric acid. As I understand it, sulfuric and hydrochloric acid were known to the alchemists of the Islamic Caliphate, and the knowledge was passed on to Europe by the 13th or 14th Century. I have a hard time believing nobody tried putting some metal in acid during all those centuries before Henry Cavendish hit the scene. Robert Boyle did it in 1672, as he reported in his paper "New Experiments Touching the Relation Betwixt Flame and Air."
There's also the philosopher's candle, which is basically a torch made by adding metal shavings to acid in a stoppered bottle with a tube through the stopper to channel the hydrogen gas. You ignite the gas, which burns with an invisible flame. I found out about the philosopher's candle from the 19th Century chemist Michael Faraday, in his lecture "The Chemical History of a Candle." There, he said the candle was used "in former times", which isn't very specific, but I'm left to assume it was old news by Cavendish's lifetime. The evidence is rather skant, but I'm positive people must have known about inflammable air before Cavendish published his paper.
But did those people know about carbon dioxide? That's the big question. It's one thing to observe flammable "spirits" bubbling up from a reaction vessel. Remember, brewers saw carbon dioxide bubbling from their fermentation tanks for thousands of years. It took van Helmont to connect the dots.
As for Robert Boyle, his main interest at the time was in seeking out ways to sustain a flame without air. When he produced hydrogen, he called it "inflammable solution of Mars", adding "for I do not now give it a more determinate name". His description of the reaction involves a lot of heat, and "stinking fumes". The impression I get is that Boyle knew his fuel wasn't very well characterized, but he was more interested in testing its flammability at the time. Investigating the "inflammable solution of Mars" would have to wait for some later date. Since hydrogen itself is odorless, I'm guessing Boyle's was contaminated with hydrogen chloride, which suggests that he was using much stronger HCl than he really needed. He saw the bubbles and he got the gas to ignite, but he didn't really investigate any further.
Cavendish's study was squarely focused on inflammable air, as an end unto itself. And so he was able to characterize it far more effectively than Boyle or anyone else who had encountered it. For openers, he collected the gas in a vessel.
[Above: Figure 1 from Philosophical Transactions, Vol. 56, TAB VII p. 141.]
To collect the gas, Cavendish performed his metal/acid reaction in a bottle (A) with a tube at the mouth. This tube (C) led into a second bottle (D) filled with water, and suspended upside down in a water bath (E). As the hydrogen evolved, it passed through the tube and into the second bottle, where it displaced the water out of the second bottle. The atmospheric air would be thus cut off from the hydrogen, because it would have to pass down through the water in order to enter the second bottle, and air just won't do that. Once Cavendish had collected a sufficient amount of hydrogen, he simply had to reach into the water bath, cap the second bottle, and then remove it from the water.
Through methods like these, Cavendish could transfer his hydrogen samples from one container to another, without contaminating them with atmospheric air. This was vital, because his experiments were designed to compare it with air, and that could only be done by isolating it.
Among Cavendish's findings:
Hydrogen is insoluble in water. Cavendish kept a bottle of hydrogen inverted in a vessel of water for several weeks, and the volume of hydrogen was unchanged. This is very different from water soluble gases like carbon dioxide or ammonia.
Hydrogen cannot be "fixed" like carbon dioxide. Cavendish kept a bottle of hydrogen inverted in vessels of lye and ammonia solutions, and the volume of the hydrogen gas remained unchanged. If he had performed the same experiment with carbon dioxide, the volume of gas would have slowly diminished, as the carbon dioxide would enter the solution to form carbonate ions.
Cavendish confirmed Boyle's observation that hydrogen only burns in the presence of air.
Hydrogen burns invisibly. As Cavendish put it "In the next three trials, though they made an explosion, yet I could not perceive any light within the bottle." He tried to explain this by suggesting the combustion was so fast that it was over before his eyes could perceive it, but today we know that the flames we usually see in nature are visible because of the solid particles of fuel that glow from the heat of combustion. Hydrogen doesn't produce any soot as it burns, so there's nothing to heat up and glow.
Hydrogen is the same no matter which metal/acid combination was used to produce it. This is something we take for granted today, but Cavendish only knew that he was producing flammable gas from his reactions. He had no way to be sure that he wasn't producing several flammable gases unless he compared them. Lo and behold, they all required about the same amount of air to burn, they all burned with an invisible flame, and they all ignited with a distinctive noise.
An interesting sidenote: Cavendish closed his paper on hydrogen by describing his attempt to get copper to react with hydrochloric acid. He had to heat it up to get the reaction going, and he got a gas, but once it came into contact with the water in the receiving bottle, it immediately went into solution. The resulting vacuum in the tube sucked water from his vessel into the reaction bottle. Hydrogen wouldn't do this, but I think what Cavendish observed was the formation of chlorine. I doubt Cavendish realized what he had on his hands. The problem was that he never would have been able to isolate chlorine with this experimental setup, so even if he did recognize the significance, he would have had to come up with a whole new way to capture the chlorine. Still, Cavendish almost pulled off a doubleheader, and I'm grateful he took the time to report the one that got away.
The beauty of Cavendish's discovery was that it was a completely new thing. Metals were a lot easier to characterize because 18th Century chemists were at least in agreement that there were multiple kinds of metal. The only debate was what the burden of proof needed to be to add new ones to the list. Gases were a whole new frontier. Fortunately, Cavendish only had to distinguish his gas from two others, and that wasn't hard to do at all. Air sustained a flame, "fixed air" put out flames, and "inflammable air" was a fuel in and of itself. They all originated from different sources, and they had very different chemistries. The tricky part was just getting them separated from one another.
And while he never knew it, his discovery shed light on the nature of the heavens. 90% of the atoms in the universe are hydrogen atoms. Hydrogen gas is rare on Earth because it easily floats away into outer space. So in a sense, the ancient philosophers were right to assume that the sky couldn’t just be ordinary air all the way up. But the stars weren’t suspended in an ocean of aether. Instead, it was all a big vacuum, containing thin wisps of gas composed of mostly hydrogen. He never would have guessed, but the same bubbles he produced by dipping zinc in acid were what comprised the sun and the stars in the night sky.
[Above: Canadian coin commemorating the bicentennial of nickel’s discovery. Supposedly this was actually struck in pure nickel metal, unlike the modern U.S. nickel coin, which is composed of 25% nickel and 75% copper.]
Nickel was discovered by Axel Fredrik Cronstedt in 1751. But let's back up a bit first.
After the Big Bang, the universe cooled to a point where atomic matter could exist. Nearly all of it was hydrogen, with some helium mixed in. I don't know if heavier elements were even possible during this time, but if they did exist, they probably would have been very rare.
The variety of chemical elements we have today is owed to the formation of the first stars. A large enough concentration of hydrogen could succumb to gravitational forces, forming a dense sphere of gas. The core of this ball of hydrogen would be compressed by the mass of the exterior, and the heat and pressure would build up to a point where nuclear fusion would be possible. Through fusion, hydrogen nuclei could collide together and form bigger nuclei, namely the sort of nuclei belonging to helium and heavier elements.
Over the course of a star's lifetime, heavier and heavier elements are formed as the lighter elements are used up. Eventually the process becomes unsustainable, and the star tops out at forming nuclei of atomic weight 56. Fusing together any heavier nuclei would cost more energy than it would release, so when the star is out of lighter "fuel", nuclear fusion can't counteract the gravitational forces on the core. In a large star, this means it collapses under its own mass, and it explodes as a supernova. The elements formed in the star are jettisoned into space.
As it happens, an isotope of nickel, nickel-56, represents the peak of nuclear fusion in a star. Ni-56 is unstable, so it eventually succumbs to radioactive decay, becoming iron-56. So this is why iron is the most abundant metal in the universe. Heavy elements all come from dying stars, and stars produce a lot of iron-56 right before they die.
As for elements heavier than iron-56, they owe their prevalence in the universe to a phenomenon called neutron capture. Neutron capture is a different kind of nuclear reaction where a large nuclei, like that of nickel-56, collides with a neutron. This happens very readily in stars as they explode, and so scientists have named this the r-process, with the letter 'r' standing for "rapid".
And so nickel is the most abundant element in the universe heavier than iron. Even though the nickel-56 doesn't last, there's plenty of it in a dying star, and it only has to undergo the r-process a couple of times to form nickel-58, a stable isotope that accounts for most of the nickel there is. Of course, the nickel-58 nuclei could collide with more neutrons to form heavier elements, but that takes time, and the star explodes before all of it is used up.
The point of all of this is that there's a lot of iron-nickel bodies floating around in space, and that's because iron and nickel are major components of the stuff blasted out of exploding stars. The core of the planet Earth is made of iron and nickel, and so are the meteorites that occasionally collide with its surface.
These meteorites were almost certainly humanity's means of discovering iron. While iron can occur in its native state on the Earth's surface, it's quite rare. Normally, the oxygen in the atmosphere reacts with any metallic iron to produce rust. Meteoric iron only got here recently, though, so it was possible for humans to encounter it before nature could take its course. That the iron fell from the sky only whetted human curiosity.
So why should Cronstedt have any credit for discovering nickel? If iron was discovered in ancient meteorites, and nickel was present in those meteorites, why didn't they discover the nickel at the same time?
Of course, it's possible that someone did notice that the nickel content of a meteorite was different. Nickel is more corrosion-resistant than iron. Nickel can also produce an allergic reaction in some individuals. A lot of nickel compounds are green, whereas iron compounds come in a wider variety of colors. So there were differences there, although they may have been too subtle for the ancient world to notice.
For example, the Chinese used an alloy of copper and nickel which they called “白銅”, pronounced "paktong" or "bai-tong". This term literally means "white copper", which immediately casts doubt in my mind. There are plenty of elements out there for whitening copper. Mercury can do it. Arsenic can do it. Tin and zinc produce a more golden color, but that could be considered a "whitening" compared to the brown of copper. The Inca used bismuth to whiten copper at least once. I suspect the main interest in paktong was as a cheaper alternative to genuine silver. Consequently, the Chinese alchemists who prepared it probably weren't worried about the exact ingredients as long as they got the desired results. They may have found nickel ore to be preferable to other whitening agents, but not otherwise notable. Chinese use of paktong began somewhere around the Third Century BC, and like the ancient Greeks and Romans, they may have been satisfied to have seven metals, so an eighth one may have been utterly ignored.
Things had changed by the 18th Century AD. Europe had found new metals whether they wanted them or not. Antimony had been rediscovered, bismuth had been found in the Ore Mountains, and cobalt was found in the bismuth ore. Europe was also waking up to the existence of zinc and platinum, which had been known in other lands for centuries.
This all caused a stir for European scholars, since they had long believed that there had always been seven metals, the same seven metals "known to Ancients". It was convenient, because there were seven planets, seven musical notes, seven colors of the rainbow, and seven days of the week. It's all very neat and tidy, but it doesn't mean a blessed thing when it's not true. Science had begun to pull loose from the superstitious mythologies of old, but there were some beliefs that were more stubborn than others.
The solution for the 18th Century scientific community seems to have been to add a second class of metals called "semi-metals". This way you could still have however many "real" metals you liked, and the extras could all be set aside in the B-list.
In 1735, Georg Brandt published his discovery of cobalt in a summary of the various metals and semi-metals. His list had six full and six semi-metals, which meant demoting mercury to the minor leagues. His reasoning seemed flawed, since cobalt had much more in common with iron than any of the other semi-metals on his list. In any case Brandt would have had to revise his list a few years later when platinum finally came to Europe's attention. Despite platinum's similarities to gold and silver, it wound up in the semi-metal category of many lists. There may have been a sincere logic behind the semi-metal classification, but it sure looks more to me like they were trying to sort the metals chronologically, rather than chemically.
In any event, the list would need to be revised yet again when nickel showed up. In 1758, Axel Cronstedt wrote a book entitled "An Essay Toward a System of Mineralogy". He classified the metals as follows:
"Full" Metals
1. Gold
2. Silver
3. Copper
4. Iron
5. Tin
6. Lead
7. Platina del Pinto (aka Platinum)
Now that's a little better, if only because he promoted platinum to full-metal, ahead of mercury, which is really the oddball of any category, since it's liquid at room temperature. Still the whole thing feels like a contrivance. Arsenic and antimony are considered metalloids today. That means that they resemble metals in some respects, but they also resemble nonmetals in others. Calling them "semi-metals" makes a measure of sense, but putting them together with honest-to-goodness metals like cobalt and bismuth doesn't. Mercury's a little strange, so I can see that. Zinc boils at a temperature where other metals don't even melt, so maybe that makes it a little strange as well. But the only thing unusual about bismuth, cobalt, and nickel was that they were recent discoveries. It feels like they were added to the semi-metal category out of modesty more than anything else. And it feels like antimony and arsenic were tacked on just to balance out the lists. Seven on one side, seven on the other.
But I've skipped past the part where Cronstedt actually discovered nickel, so let's back up again. In Germany, there was found a mineral that looked an awful lot like copper ore. It was reddish-brown in color, sometimes it had green spots on it, and you could fuse it with glass to color it green. But when you tried to extract the copper metal from the ore, no go. Superficially, it seemed to be copper ore, but it just didn't have any copper, which kind of defeated the whole point of digging it up and lugging it out of the mine. The miners named this mineral "Kupfernickel", after a deceptive spirit from German folklore.
[Above: Kupfernickel, literally “false copper” or “copper devil.” Today, we call it niccolite or nickeline.]
Now if you've been following along, this all probably sounds rather familiar, because cobalt ore was discovered in very much the same way. Cobaltite, CoAsS, looked enough like a copper ore to fool the miners, but when they tried to extract the copper, they found none. So they named the mineral "Kobold," after a mischievous sprite who plagued the mining industry. By 1735, Georg Brandt discovered that kobold contained a different metal, one that had never been characterized before. This same metal, which he named cobalt, turned out to be the thing which could impart a deep shade of blue to glass. Until Brandt made his discovery, everyone has assumed the blue glass was caused by bismuth, since cobalt and bismuth tended to occur together.
I'm sure Brandt had some opponents to his cobalt discovery, but he had a lot of evidence on his side that just wouldn't go away. He had successfully separated bismuth from cobalt, and proved that one metal turns glass blue, and the other does not. No other metal (or group of metals) could duplicate cobalt's ability to color glass blue, so it would have been difficult to argue with his conclusion.
Kupfernickel posed a similar scientific challenge, but for one reason or another, things wouldn't be quite so easy. In 1694, Urban Hiarne published a book on metals, where he speculated that Kupfernickel must somehow contain copper, even though no one had been able to extract it. He suggested that the copper was mingled with Kobold and arsenic. In other words, he thought Kupfernickel was a combination of genuine copper ore and Kobold. The genuine copper enabled it to turn glass green, while the Kobold portion prevented the extraction of the copper content. This was echoed by J.H. Linck in 1726, who reasoned that since Kupfernickel produced a green solution when it was dissolved in nitric acid, it had to contain some real copper, because copper behaved the same way in nitric acid. Again, the Kobold was what kept all this supposedly real copper from being extractable. You could detect the copper through chemical identity tests, but that was it.
But if all of this was true, and Kupfernickel really was a mix of Kobold and copper, why couldn't it turn glass blue, the way pure, roasted Kobold could do? According to Mary Elvira Weeks' "Discovery of the Elements", Swedish miners came at the problem from the other direction. They were mining for Kobold because they wanted some of that sweet blue glass money. So when they were fooled by Kupfernickel, it was because it failed to have any Kobold in it. The called it "cobalt which had lost its soul."
In other words, Kupfernickel sometimes resembled copper, and sometimes resembled Kobold, and sometimes neither. It wasn't very well understood.
And that brings us to Axel Fredrik Cronstedt. Cronstedt was born in Turinge, Sweden in 1722, and he took up an interest in mineralogy after meeting chemist/mineralogists Sven Rinman and Johann Wallerius. Between 1746 and 1748, he studied chemistry under Georg Brandt, who had discovered cobalt in the previous decade. In 1751, he obtained a mineral sample from a cobalt mine in Los, Halsingland, Sweden.
The results of Cronstedt's study of the mineral were published in the Swedish journal Kungliga Svenska Vetenskapsakademiens Handlingar (Transactions of the Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences) volume 12, covering the year 1751.
The title was "Rön och Försök Gjorde Med en Malm-art, från Los Kobolt Grufvor i Färlia Socken och Helsingeland." My crappy translation of this reads: "Evidence and Experiments Performed With an Ore-Species, from Los Cobalt Mines in Färlia Parish and Helsingland.”
(I'm a little confused about the geography, because as far as I can see, Färila and Los appear to be two municipalities 42 kilometers apart. So I don't understand how the mine can be in both places. But at least we know it was all in the Helsingland province of Sweden.)
It's a pretty short article, and the important thing to me was that it was devoted exclusively to the single topic of nickel. Compare this to Georg Brandt's "Dissertation on Semi-Metals", where he seemed to be discussing a general chemistry topic, only to slip in his discovery of cobalt somewhere in the middle. Talk about burying the lead. Then again, Brandt was the first person to publish the discovery of an element. His predecessor, Henning Brand, didn't bother to publish his discovery of phosphorus whatsoever, and we only have word of mouth to thank for keeping him out of obscurity. Well, A.F. Cronstedt did it right. He knew nickel was the main event, and he wasn't going to beat around the bush.
If you're interested, the article is available on the internet, but it's in Swedish. I managed to translate it well enough to get the gist, but I'm don't think I'll embarrass myself by posting what I came up with. Fortunately, I do have some English sources that cover the story very nicely.
Cronstedt's sample from the Los mine was what we now know as niccolite, or nickeline, a mineral composed of nickel arsenide, NiAs. To him, it was either Kupfernickel, or something that looked exactly like it. In his paper, he described the sample, then runs through numerous chemical tests. I won't go into the entire thing, but he was so thorough about it, I don't think it's even necessary.
First and foremost, just about all the compounds he produced from the ore were green. He prepared a lye (nickel hydroxide), and then a vitriol (nickel sulfate). He then calcined the sulfate to obtain a colcothar (nickel oxide), which was gray. He reduced this into a regulus (impure metallic nickel), which he then dissolved in nitric acid, hydrochloric acid, and aqua regia (a mixture of both nitric and hydrochloric acids). All three solutions turns out green.
So if you're keeping score, nickel hydroxide, nickel sulfate, nickel nitrate, and nickel chloride are all green. Different shades of green, but still. To be sure, metals like copper, iron, and cobalt could form green salts, but not this many. Copper sulfate is blue, iron nitrate is pale violet, and cobalt chloride is blue or purple depending on the humidity. Right off the bat, Cronstedt has a strong case for a unique metal in Kupfernickel.
Cronstedt also performed a precursor to the borax bead test, introduced by Berzelius in 1812. Basically you dip a red-hot platinum wire loop in borax, turning it into a bead. You wet the bead and dip it into your sample, then put the bead in a flame to fuse the sample with the bead. If there's certain metals present, the bead will change color.
By Berzelius' day, the test was based on established results for the metals known in his era. In 1751, that work was apparently still being pioneered by chemists like Cronstedt. He wasn't testing his sample to identify a known metal; he was doing it to see how an unknown metal compared to others. As it turns out, his sample turned the borax bead brown, which is exactly what nickel should do. In contrast, cobalt would have come back deep blue, copper would have turned the bead sky blue, and iron would have been yellow.
In another experiment, Cronstedt dissolved his ore in nitric acid. It produced a green solution, just as a copper compound would. J.H. Linck had interpreted this as evidence that Kupfernickel contained genuine copper, even though no one could extract it from the ore. Cronstedt resolved this contradiction by testing the solution for the presence of copper. It failed.
See, if you put a piece of iron (like a nail) in a copper nitrate solution, the iron will react with the solution. It's not a violent reaction. What happens is the iron atoms on the surface of the nail trade places with the copper ions in the solution. So after a while you find that copper metal has deposited on the nail. Meanwhile, the solution will have changed color, because there's now a bunch of iron nitrate where the copper nitrate used to be.
3Cu(NO3)2 + 2Fe ---> 2Fe(NO3)3 + 3Cu
If Kupfernickel had any copper in it, then a solution of it in nitric acid should have the same effect on an iron nail. Cronstedt added his piece of iron, but nothing happened. That's because there is no copper in Kupfernickel. The green color of the solution was produced by nickel ions, and they don't react the same way.
3Ni(NO3)2 + 2Fe ---> No Reaction
In short, Linck couldn't have it both ways. If the green solution contained copper, then it ought to behave the same way as any other green solution of copper. Otherwise, it had to be a different solution altogether, one that just happened to be the same color.
In another experiment, he added ammonia to the nickel salts he had obtained and the solution became a deep blue color. This is similar to the blue color you get by adding ammonia to copper salts. For example, adding ammonia to a solution of copper ions will produce tetramminecopper ions, which have a much deeper blue color. It turned out that nickel does the same thing, forming hexamminenickel ions. But when Cronstedt evaporated off the solvent and reduced his blue crystals to get the metal, he obtained nickel instead of copper.
Cronstedt also found that nickel will form alloys with all of the known metals of his day, except for silver and mercury. This makes it more closely related to iron and cobalt, which are also insoluble in mercury. Indeed, nickel mixes very well with iron and cobalt, but they're easy to separate, because nickel is much more resistant to corrosion, and its melting point is lower than iron and cobalt. So if you had a mixture of the three, you ought to be able to roast them in a furnace and the nickel will melt while the other two oxidize.
This poked a hole in the possibility that nickel might be an alloy of other white metals. If it were an alloy, it can't contain copper because of the iron nail experiment. It couldn't contain any silver or mercury, because otherwise it would have no difficulty mixing with more silver and mercury. It couldn't contain iron or cobalt, because they were easily separated in a furnace. How could an alloy of iron be so easily separated from iron itself?
Nevertheless, Cronstedt exercised due diligence, since there was a very real possibility that nickel was some new alloy that defied convention. In his own words (translated and quoted in Weeks' "Discovery of the Elements"):
"I made many attempts to mix whole and half metals for the purpose of preparing a product like it; but without success. I have therefore employed Herr Director Scheffer's rich insight and untiring efforts to the same end, but all his observations have as yet given no clue."
I believe Cronstedt was referring to Henrik Teofilus Scheffer (1710-1759). This may have been blatant namedropping to bolster his case. Cronstedt was only thirty years old when he published his paper, so it couldn't have hurt to consult an older, more reputable colleague. "Hey, I may be new at this, but Scheffer's a pro, and he can't dispute my findings." In any case, there was substance to his argument. If nickel had truly been an alloy of other metals, then that meant some combination of known metals could be prepared in the laboratory, and this alloy could duplicate the results Cronstedt had observed with his Kupfernickel sample. So he and Scheffer tried to formulate such an alloy, but they failed.
Cronstedt closed by saying that no known metal, or combination of metals, could produce the same green compounds he had observed, or duplicate the other properties he had found. Thus, the regulus of Kupfernickel must be recognized as a new semi-metal, unless someone could provide another explanation.
Despite his certainty, he waited until 1754 to give the new metal a name. He picked "nickel" as an abbreviation of "regulus of Kupfernickel". I would suppose he was also trying to eliminate the "Kupfer" part from the name, since he had demonstrated very clearly that copper had nothing to do with it.
Cronstedt's discovery was accepted by many chemists of the time, but there were still skeptics who maintained that nickel was just an alloy of cobalt, arsenic, iron, and copper. It would be easy to dismiss them as stubborn contrarians, but I'll take a moment to defend their point of view.
For one thing, science is about skepticism. In the 1750's, Cronstedt's claim was as far-fetched as cold fusion was in 1989. The whole point of the scientific revolution was to do away with the rumor and superstition that had plagued Medieval scholars. This is reflected in the English Royal Society's motto: "Nullius in verba", "Take nobody's word for it." To accept Cronstedt's claim at face value would have been a betrayal of this new ethic. A new metal was pretty extraordinary, even if several new ones had shown up recently. And extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence.
To us, it's obvious that Cronstedt was right, but we have the benefit of hindsight. Cronstedt's opponents were basically saying "What, there's another metal? How many does that make, thirteen? Fourteen? Look, we went along with the cobalt business, but where does this end? We can't just blindly accept every jerk who comes along proclaiming a new metal. Otherwise we'll end up with a list of, like, ninety-one metals, and then where will we be?"
Further, there were a lot of basic premises in chemistry that hadn't been established in the 1750's. The known metals could be distinguished from one another rather easily, but there wasn't a set definition of what made them metals. Who was to say that nickel couldn't be an alloy, and it was just really difficult to make or separate? For that matter, what if nickel were two new metals mixed together, and Cronstedt had no way to separate them? If that were possible, who was to say that all of the known metals weren't somehow composed of simpler substances? Cronstedt made a powerful case, but it hinged on principles that no one had ever really laid out. They were understood to some extent, but they were also taken for granted, and they wouldn't be firmly established until the Chemical Revolution later in the century.
That having been said, I suspect a lot of the opposition to Cronstedt's discovery was rooted in tradition disguised as healthy skepticism. His opponents didn't buy into nickel because they simply didn't want it. They liked the list of metals just the way it was, and saw no pressing need to change their point of view. Nickel didn't explain anything important, except for the properties of some tricky mineral that only miners ever had to worry about.
Certainly, Cronstedt himself felt that his critics were petty. His mineralogy text "An Essay Toward an System of Mineralogy" was originally published anonymously. As he explained in the preface:
"I have thought proper to conceal my name, to prevent any constraint on myself or others, and with a view to be at a greater liberty to amend the System, whenever I shall be convinced there is a necessity for so doing, either by my own experience, or by the observations of others: For I flatter myself that this work will not pass unnoticed by men of letters; and, as it is only an Essay, it ought, according to an established law amongst authors, to be sheltered from too severe censures."
Cronstedt's preface reeks with frustration over the conservatism that held sway over science. To him, if you upheld the traditional theories and principles, you were held in high esteem, but if you tried to question the conventional wisdom, you invited reproach. His anonymous essay, then was a way for him to push his agenda without jeopardizing his career.
I'm just speculating here, but I think some of Cronstedt's radicalism may have stemmed from his tutelage under Georg Brandt. Brandt had discovered cobalt, and he too had faced opposition, as Cronstedt wrote in his "Essay":
"These false notions have, however, induced a new author to describe the cobalt as a mixture of iron, copper, lead, bismuth, and arsenic; but he has not at the same time published any experiments which might serve to confirm his opinion; amongst which, with great reason, such experiments are expected as imitate nature in this composition, which is pretended to consist of so many different things."
As far as Cronstedt was concerned, the burden of proof lay with cobalt's critics. It was easy to say that cobalt was a complex mixture of metals, but no one was willing to put on a lab apron and prove it. Science owes much to skepticism, but even more to empiricism, and Georg Brandt had been nothing if not empirical about his cobalt research.
Sixteen years later, Cronstedt followed in his master's footsteps, and he discovered his own new metal using the same thorough methodology, and the critics could only offer the same weak argument. Concerning nickel, he wrote:
"For my own part, I have found myself obliged to follow the opinion of the latter, partly because I am tired with those common epithets given to unknown bodies; such as, wild, refractory, rapacious, arsenical, irreducible, metallic earth, &c. &c. which regard the effect alone and not its cause; and partly because I have not, befides the nickel, found any metal or metallic composition, which
1. Becomes green when calcined.
2. Yields a vitriol, whole colcothar also becomes green in the fire.
3. So easily unites with sulphur, and forms with it a regule of such a peculiar nature, as the nickel does in this circumstance; and that
4. Does not unite with silver, but only adheres or sticks close to it, when they have been melted together.
“The nickel not having yet been found free from cobalt and iron, is the reason why it was not discovered. This was the case also with the cobalt. Platina del pinto perhaps, in the same manner, might for a long time have been mixed in the gold, at certain places, where it is said to be naturally paler than any where else in the world. But the existence of such things cannot any longer be denied, since the method is discovered to get them separate, and free from heterogeneous substances. It indeed would be the same thing, as if in a country where silver is never found but in the potter's lead ore, any person should deny the existence of either of these metals, or insist upon it, that one is produced from the other.
“It is remarkable, that the precipitates of nickel give a blue colour to the spirit of sal ammoniac, when they are dissolved in it; without shewing besides any marks of copper, which, however, could not be concealed if there were any; for if a small quantity of copper is melted with the nickel, and kept in a strong fire with it, the copper soon separates, and scorifies, tinging the glass first of a reddifh brown opaque colour, and, the fire being further forced, it then makes it transparent and green, as usual.
"There is no danger attending the encreasing the number of the metals. Astrological influences are now in no repute among the learned, and we have already more metals than planets within our solar system. It would perhaps be more useful to discover more of these metals, than idly to lose our time in repeating the numberless experiments which have been made, in order to discover the constiruent parts of the metals already known. In this persuasion, I have avoided to mention any hypotheses about the principles of the metals, the processes of mercurification, and other things of the like nature, with which, to tell the truth, I have never troubled myself." [Emphasis mine]
The controversy was put to rest by the 1770's, although Cronstedt, who died in 1765, wasn't around to enjoy it. In 1775, Torben Bergman conducted experiments to obtain extremely pure nickel, thus enabling him to confirm Cronstedt's findings without having to worry about the influence of mineral impurities. In 1777, J.K.F. Meyer discovered nickel's presence in meteoric iron, when he obtained a green solution from a sample, and it turned blue on the addition of ammonia. This was confirmed in 1800, when Joseph-Louis Proust found nickel in meteoric iron from Peru. So even outer space was on Cronstedt's side.
In 1951, the Canadian mint struck a five-cent piece to commemorate the bicentennial of Cronstedt's discovery. Five cent coins are commonly called "nickels", although they're often made of other metals with a nickel plating. The Canadian 1951 coin was the real deal, from what I understand, although they had to halt production and roll out a steel version to conserve nickel for the Korean War. I think it's a fitting tribute to Alex Cronstedt. The average consumer might not notice the difference between pure nickel and plated steel, but Cronstedt could tell.