CACOPHRASTUS! SO THEY snap their teeth, declaiming vituperative poetry composed in hell for my benefit. Cacophrastus! Yellow cringing curs snarl and bark. The least hairs of my breech display more learning than their mightiest. My shoe-buckles shine brighter than Avicenna and Galen in conference. Theophrastus am I!—skillful, zealous, adept at the Holy Kabbala, arch-enemy to distemperature, advocate of theology, ascetic defender of freedom, illustrious pharmacist, bald foe of folly. Am I not Theophrastus Bombast von Hohenheim? I am Helvetius Eremita, Philippus, Suevas, Arpinus, Germanus. Or I am the Luther of physicians—Lutherus medicorum. But what difference does it make? I heal patients abandoned by charlatans to sickness or death, restore youth to the aged with marvelous elixirs. And by our Lord I would this gleaming pate might fend off gnats as well as I fend off academic sophistry. Hah! What good is a shining coat-of-mail and buckler? Why gag on stinking panaceas falsely concocted by apothecaries in sculleries? Dizzards! Graziers! Chymists swarming through filthy basements! Vermin begot to brew up foul broth! Dung-prophets! Quacksalvers! None can equal Paracelsus. I am wiser by seventy than all such cod-merchants. Thisselwarps! Whifflers! Daubers! Puffers that coagulate, sublimate and distill—tending bubbling apparatus toward what? I would sooner tabulate every butterfly in Holland. I am the most puissant and numinous doctor on earth, ruled not by the motionless fabric of constellations but incessant study. There be a more pregnant sense to my doctrine than their wits construe.
I HOLD ALL secrets of nature, Magnalia Artium, by which God endows a great physician. Let windly raving clotpoles claim I am drunk. I am lucid. If I knew not all bones and varieties of human flesh and where each was placed, how could I choose the palliative that each wound needs? Leech-doctors say I am irreverent—coarse and uncivil—because on Saint John’s Day I sprinkled with gunpowder and sulfur the fatuitous books of bygone theoreticians so they went up in smoke to vast applause from students, which is what ancient science merits! Rheumy academics join hands to clap against me. Why? Because I illuminate the fount, progress and fall of their tedious conceit. They parade in sheep’s russet, parched brains riveled like apples. I lift my hind leg at them! Costermongers! University catechism is a mildewed cloak for pedagogues hatched in a viper pit wistly dreaming antique fable. Why expound the opinions of others—Dioscorides, Galen, Macar? What is learned by rote? No reliance have I set on Avicenna’s consorts because Nature is the physician, not I. It is she that composes, not I. From her alone I take my orders and study the art of her pharmacies—behind what leaf she writes each virtue, in which box each is kept. Not in Mesue nor Lumine nor Praeposito. No teacher have I met surmounting this world save God, snakes, magic and angels. I say there will be dowsers and spagyri and Archei and they will have Quintum Esse and tincture, then where will your soup-kitchens go? What will become of quacks that give up a patient to die while working out his complexion from stools and piss? Joskins! Drovers fixed at their poison! Wicked, wrong, unjustifiable—so do they brabble against my meteorics, my physics, my theories, my practice. How might I seem less than erroneous or strange? What greatness is there that was not first maledicted?
PSEUDO-PHYSICIANS SUPPOSE THAT by jugglery and cunning they can cheat Nature out of her dues, thereby acting with impunity against the manifesto of God—behavior at once intolerable and specious, a summit of vanity. And for the novelty of constructing artificial systems why disparage familiar treatment? Nor should a doctor pluck apart a sick man’s wallet while prevaricating, ramping—spewing foaming gibberish at spotted invalids weak