FOUR PASSIONS LIKE the wheels of a carriage transport us from one estate to the next—which are called Joy, Love, Desire and Hate—as the moon and sun are said to pirouette and whirl across our semesters while encircling the earth—or as three superior planets dance about, now stationary, now direct, being now retrograde or in apogee or perigee, slow, swift, oriental or occidental, gracefully undulant—or as Mercury with Venus trails harping about the universe and four phantasmic lights wink toward Jupiter, all belike to handsome music out of the spheres. Hence few stand amazed to see men sport the frenzied look of squeezed cats.
WITH WHAT ANXIETY do we discard one object for its neighbor while juggling tumultuous ideas of what we want, delirious, everywhere presuming the utmost gratification, so accustomed are we to seek benefits where we believe they should be met. We listen to Frater Albertus propose that men renounce home, take leave of bewildered families, debase honorable lineage and pitch fortune to the sea while enduring disease, hunger and thirst in order to scour tropic latitudes—but for what? That they might search out fugitive chimeras faintly descried in a wordless dream! Now what are these? Longevity, liberty and gold. O, such a tongue for such a tiny monk of tiny wit! Yet are we told that he despaired of what his habit demanded until the gracious Virgin vouchsafed excellence at Divinity or Philosophy whereupon he most imprudently chose the second, for which she chastised him since as he stood to the rostrum lecturing at the university in Cologne and all his thoughts thickly encrusted with jewels of rhetoric—Woe! Every idea fled! Yea, he fell mute. Therefore, if we reflect upon Frater Albertus we avow that having been transmogrified from an ass to a philosopher he was converted back again. Mercy! What fearful tragedies ambush the scholiast! We feel stricken. We sigh with remorse. We think mortals exhibit greater brains in their heels than up above.
HO! COMES THIS most respected monk journeying from Bollstaedt wagging his plump book lately printed at Nuremberg—Compendium theologicae veritatis—which excited pedagogues. What a splash do these mighty buckets make! Withal we find wisdom difficult to communicate since rung aloud it gives off the uncommon ring and chime of common folly. We ourselves like spinning spiders wisely restrict our wisdom to its net.
WELL, WHAT DO we say about Asses? We listen to Frater Cornelius Agrippa assert with his Vanity of Sciences how it is prudent to be transported on the back of one—the beast exemplifying both patience and fortitude. And in regard to that of Balaam, we consider it more discerning and perceptive than its master since it learnt to speak intelligibly. And of the philosopher Ammonius—each day he allowed an ass to audit his lecture. We know also how Abraham chose to take his seat upon an ass. And Jesus Christ, so did he recognize the incomparable merit of this lowly creature by selecting an ass for the occasion of his terrestrial entrance. Therefore, it seems to us that few animals are so appropriate to honor and to uphold Man’s irrefutable superiority.
MAGISTER VAUGHAN IN Coelum Terrae reflects on the mephitic Dragon which is everywhere present, out of whose nostrils stems a loathsome fire that presages imminent destruction, and with touching modesty labels himself the Egg of Nature. Pious he is. Indeed he drips effacement, conceived by God while admitting to weakness, equivalent to father and mother, invisible, visible, within the light is he as well as without, signifying both heaven and earth. Simultaneously is he bright or dark, sprung from the soil while descending toward mankind from above, disseminating every color, a carbuncle of the Sun transmuting copper, iron, lead and other subordinate minerals into predestined shapes. What? So did we read with Fulcanelli how innumerable secrets have been carved into the Great Porch of Notre Dame—which edifice patiently outlasts the centuries in silence while it awaits one adept capable of understanding. Bravo! To every sort of incantation we cry Alleluia!
EIRENAEUS EXPLAINS HOW a furious cur upon a snarling bitch will generate a pallid whelp the color of wisdom. Indeed! Further, he informs us how two embattled dogs—one Armenian, one Corascene—illustrate this principle more tenaciously than opposing magnets contend, or as jousting knights reveal how combat opening with violence must end with coalescence. Seldom have we felt more enlightened. Now off to the alembic for there in a glass haply we may watch earth turn to water and water turn to air and air to flame and then down again, meanwhile between each working many things worth admiration. But how many horses shall we requisition to transport such masterful conceit?
TAGLA! MATHON! JOHOVAM! Eloim! Five measures of sulfur, of saltpeter seven, of hazel twigs three. Nature’s time be long, the manner of her concoction uniform. Her fire appoints our need, therefore be Gold the precious plasm. Gold be insurgent! This is helpful—wrapped in frantic or obfuscous effort—yet what do such mutterings propose? We could as readily drown flies beneath a squirt of water as interpret mystic twattle, and we inquire as skeptics what is not boxed up with fraud? Is it best to frolic in obscuranties of expression or in expressions of obscurity? Ambiguities, wool, smoaky promise. Our wits do grow stuck at one place like the dried-out bristles of last year’s varnish brush. Where does such gibberish end? The nucleus of spagyric mystery is life and the glorious key there-to is Light, whose gleaming ore the alchymist exposes. What? What? Back and forth we swim, captive trout in a barrel. From this we should borrow a magnet, or chalybs from that, Diana’s Doves from elsewhere—flats and
