‘Tis true, indeed, the republic of dark authors, after they once found out this excellent expedient of dying, have been peculiarly happy in the variety, as well as extent of their reputation. For, night being the universal mother of things, wise philosophers hold all writings to be fruitful in the proportion they are dark; and therefore, the true illuminated [3] (that is to say, the darkest of all) have met with such numberless commentators, whose scholastic midwifery hath delivered them of meanings, that the authors themselves perhaps never conceived, and yet may very justly be allowed the lawful parents of them, the words of such writers being like seed,[4] which, however scattered at random, when they light upon a fruitful ground, will multiply far beyond either the hopes or imagination of the sower.
And therefore in order to promote so useful a work, I will here take leave to glance a few innuendoes, that may be of great assistance to those sublime spirits, who shall be appointed to labor in a universal comment upon this wonderful discourse. And first,[5] I have couched a very profound mystery in the number of O’s multiplied by seven, and divided by nine. Also, if a devout brother of the Rosy Cross will pray fervently for sixty- three mornings, with a lively faith, and then transpose certain letters and syllables according to prescription in the second and fifth section, they will certainly reveal into a full receipt of the opus magnum. Lastly, whoever will be at the’ pains to calculate the whole number of each letter in this treatise, and sum up the difference exactly between the several numbers, assigning the true natural cause for every such difference, the discoveries in the product will plentifully reward his labour. But then he must beware of Bythus and Sige[6] and be sure not to forget the qualities of Acamoth: A cujus lacrymis humecta prodit substantia, ˆ risu lucida, ˆ tristiti‰ solida, & ˆ timore mobilis, wherein Eugenius Philalethes[7] hath committed an unpardonable mistake.
1 This is literally true, as we may observe in the prefaces to most plays poems. &c.
2 By dogs, the author means common injudicious critics, as he explains it himself before in his Digression upon Critics (Section III).
3 A name of the Rosicrucians.
4 Nothing is more frequent than for commentators to force interpretation, which the author never meant.
5 This is what the Cabalists among the Jews have done with the Bible, and pretend to find wonderful mysteries by it.
6 I was told by an eminent divine, whom I consulted on this point, that these two barbarous words, with that of Acamoth and its qualities, as here set down, are quoted from Irenaeus. This he discovered by searching that ancient writer for another quotation of our author, which he has placed in the title-page, and refers to the book and chapter; the curious were very inquisitive, whether those barbarous words, basima eacabasa, &c. are really in Irenaus, and upon enquiry ’twas found they were a sort of cant or jargon of certain heretics, and therefore very properly prefixed to such a book as this of our author.
7 Vid. Anima magica abscondita. To the above-mentioned treatise, called Anthroposophia Theomagica, there is another annexed, called Anima magica abscondita, written by the same author, Vaughan, under the name of Eugenius Philalethes, but in neither of those treatises is there any mention of Acamoth or its qualities, so that this is nothing but amusement, and a ridicule of dark, unintelligible writers; only the words, A cujus lacrymis, &c. are as we have said, transcribed from IrenÔus, though I know not from what part. I believe one of the author’s designs was to set curious men a-hunting through index and enquiring for books out of the common road.
SECTION XI
AFTER so wide a compass as I have wandered, I do now gladly overtake, and close in with my subject, and shall henceforth hold on with it an even pace to the end of my journey, except some beautiful prospect appears within sight of my way, whereof though at present I have neither warning nor expectation, yet upon such an accident, come when it will, I shall beg my reader’s favour and company, allowing me to conduct him through it along with myself. For in writing it is as in travelling: if a man is in haste to be at home (which I acknowledge to be none of my case, having never so little business as when I am there) if his horse be tired with long riding and ill ways, or be naturally a jade, I advise him clearly to make the straightest and the commonest road, be it ever so dirty. But then surely we must own such a man to be a scurvy companion at best; he spatters himself and his fellow-travellers at every step: all their thoughts, and wishes, and conversation, turn entirely upon the subject of their journey’s end; and at every splash, and plunge, and stumble, they heartily wish one another at the devil.
On the other side, when a traveller and his horse are in heart and plight, when his purse is full, and the day before him, he takes the road only where it is clean or convenient; entertains his company there as agreeably as he can; but upon the first occasion, carries them along with him to every delightful scene in view, whether of art, of nature, or-of both; and if they chance to refuse out of stupidity or weariness, let them jog on by themselves and be d_n’d; he’ll overtake them at the next town, at which arriving, he rides furiously through; the men, women, and children run out to gaze; a hundred [1] noisy curs run barking after him, of which, if he honors the boldest with a lash of his whip, it is rather out of sport than revenge; but should some sourer mongrel dare too near an approach, he receives a salute on the chaps by an accidental stroke from the courser’s heels (nor is any ground lost by the blow) which sends him yelping and limping home.
I now proceed to sum up the singular adventures of my renowned Jack, the state of whose dispositions and fortunes the careful reader does, no doubt, most exactly remember, as I last parted with them in the conclusion of a former section. Therefore, his next care must be from two of the foregoing to extract a scheme of notions, that may best fit his understanding for a true relish of what is to ensue.
Jack had not only calculated the first revolutions of his brain so prudently, as to give rise to that epidemic sect of ®olists, but succeeding also into a new and strange variety of conceptions, the fruitfulness of his imagination led him into certain notions, which, although in appearance very unaccountable, were not without their mysteries and their meanings, nor wanted followers to countenance and improve them. I shall therefore be extremely careful and exact in recounting such material passages of this nature as I have been able to collect, either from undoubted tradition, or indefatigable reading; and shall describe them as graphically as it is possible, and as far as notions of that height and latitude can be brought within the compass of a pen. Nor do I at all question, but they will furnish plenty of noble matter for such, whose converting imaginations dispose them to reduce all things into types; who can make shadows, no thanks to the sun, and then mould them into substances, no thanks to philosophy; whose peculiar talent lies in fixing tropes and allegories to the letter, and refining what is literal into figure and mystery.
Jack had provided a fair copy of his father’s will, engrossed in form upon a large skin of parchment; and resolving to act the part of a most dutiful son, he became the fondest creature of it imaginable. For although, as I have often told the reader, it consisted wholly in certain plain, easy directions about the management and wearing of their coats, with legacies and penalties, in case of obedience or neglect, yet he began to entertain a fancy that the matter was deeper and darker, and therefore must needs have a great deal more of mystery at the bottom. ‘Gentlemen,’ said he, ‘I will prove this very skin of parchment to be meat, drink, and cloth, to be the philosopher’s stone, and the universal medicine.’ [2] In consequence of which raptures, he resolved to make use of it in the most necessary, as well as the most paltry, occasions of life. He had a way of working it into any shape he pleased; so that it served him for a nightcap when he went to bed, and for an umbrella in rainy weather. He would lap a piece of it about a sore toe, or when he had fits, burn two inches under his nose; or if anything lay heavy on his stomach, scrape off, and swallow as much of the powder as would lie on a silver penny — they were all infallible remedies. With analogy to these refinements, his common talk and conversation ran wholly in the phrase of his will, [3] and he circumscribed the utmost of his eloquence within that compass, not daring to let slip a syllable without authority from thence. Once at a strange house, he was suddenly taken short upon an urgent juncture, whereon it may not be allowed too particularly to dilate; and being not able to call to mind, with that suddenness the occasion required, an authentic phrase for demanding the way to the backside; he chose rather as the more prudent course to incur the penalty in such cases usually annexed. Neither was it possible for the united rhetoric of mankind to prevail with him to make himself clean again; because having consulted the will upon this emergency, he met with a passage [4] near the bottom (whether foisted in by the transcriber, is not known) which seemed to forbid it.