I DEBATE WHAT nature hopes to achieve with us. Could it be an escape from incogitance, out of vacuity toward entity—shadow to substance? So do I question the admixture of evil, by what warrant this pervades a room, what is its composition and how it mottles the lucidity of thought. Raveled in doubt I comb the constellations for one favorable burst of light. Orion walks poised and balanced on pinnacles of diamond fire while I am grown full of device drawing together metal bones. Where is the alchymic root or spring? What might be disclosed should the lamp illuminating our universe prevail?
HUMAN INTELLECT ENABLES us to choose among contrary paths but how should we decide on the parabola of thought? I have looked toward the radiant arch of understanding only to observe a net built with entanglement. Yet, it is critical that men discover how presumptions originate—with such vehemence does the mind influence the flesh, since we are conjoined of two laboratories—corpus being that which tangibly labors, whereas the intangible we describe as imagination.
SHAME COMPELS THE face to blush, fright summons pallor, ague, trembling diarrhoea and melancholic obstructions. Envy evokes jaundice. Delight stimulates. Sadness oppresses. Intolerable anguish contributes to miscarriage, hysterics, apoplexies and malformed children. Of this, as of much else, I am persuaded—as by his thumb alone would I be able to recognize Hercules. But how does the simple bird conceive her nest? Whence comes the prosperous wind? Why should a circle lack angles?
WHAT IS THE provenance of those glorious hues that engage us during spring and summer? If we consider the gross nigritude of earth it proposes nothing fragrant or savory or desirable, nonetheless iridescent colors emerge along with a plenitude of living creatures—shining pools replete with an infinity of fishes, gracious birds, leaping animals—amid a plethora of minerals and sparkling stones such as emerald, alexandrite, carbuncle, girasole and peridot, all derived from abhorrence. Out of an herb yclept Colorio when it molders in cattle dung crawls a most repulsive larva, yet as its carcase is burnt—Anon! We behold the rainbow. Who can attribute the mysteries of nature?
EARTH APPEARS TO be the premise and foundation of all things, constituting fundament or centrality, at once the sole object and recipient of heavenly beneficence, proprietor of seminal virtue which, by stimulation, attempts to reassure and liberate that which it is offered. I have heard it likened to the belly where matter digests itself in order to be renewed since every shape represents the tomb of another, which is self-evident and a determining precept of creation. But I feel apprehensive about confining movement to parallels.
I ASK ABOUT the maturity of wheat—what obligates it to grow. A seed must be planted in soil which encourages it to secrete the essence dormant within its husk, whereupon it flourishes. Now since that is so, what inhibits a multiplication of gold? But let us say the matrix should be disqualified for humidity, or too much or too little of some other aspect should develop, then we would feel surprised because nature objects to change, although like a generous mother she rewards that husbandman who meliorates his ground with compost, who scorches weeds and resuscitates morbid matter through fructifying unguents. Hence, the alchymist beginning his assault against disease by accoupling observation with intuition should anticipate a fulsome harvest. Yet I have watched men mark their schemes out of obduracy toward fatal excess.
IT IS CLEAR how vegetables resolve to expand beneath the sun, but when they think the sun too strong they decide to perish. So should an alchymic doctor apprehend the tendencies of heat and cold, of moisture and desiccation—of every debilitating operative and seasonal monarch. He must not bitterly complain how what proved useful or effective once must prove effectual twice, but should assiduously chart the progress of sinister blemishes, learn why cinquefoil despairs and follow the seven proud daughters of Atlas—Celaeno, Electra, Sterope, Taygeta, Alcyone, Merope and Maia—nightly plotting their trajectory, because we embody a universe comprised of mortal and celestial spheres. Consequently, if a man’s organs neglect their office he will fall sick, he will lift up both hands to providence.
MANIFESTATIONS OF DISEASE and health fluctuate because Sol and Luna which now travel separately once were affiliated. Thus it follows that as sidereal objects decline or ascend a patient’s condition will appear to deteriorate or improve. We should note also that expressions of agony characteristic to the moribund often disappear, which suggests that paradise might not be far distant, closer than we expect.
THE BODY SUBMITS when it knows it must, if mortal flesh admits no alternative. I have heard Chymists suggest how resurrection is possible when substances containing Harmoniac are supplied—charcoal, wax, oil and soot—which seems implausible. Illness desires its medicine just as the man desires a wife, this much I accept. But what argues our claim to restoration?
I KNOW THAT we estimate the size and shape of a dog or an ox or a tree by its shadow just as we estimate degrees of health or sickness by inspecting the quantity and color and odor of urine. I know also that nature will announce the perfect way and order without which nothing can be done or brought toward a perfect end.
