Nature in Motion

Raymond Lull, in his Compendium of Alchemy, calls the principles of the magical art [New translation of the Latin:] “fugitive spirits condensed in the air, in the form of various monsters and animals,

and even human beings, which go like clouds, now here, now there.” [Vaughan’s own English rendering:] “Certain fugitive spirits condensed in the air, in the shape of various monsters, beasts and men, moving like clouds here and there.” As for the Spaniard's meaning, I leave that to his readers; let them make the most of it.

This is true: as the air and all the volatile substances in it are restless, so too is first matter. No human eye ever saw her twice in precisely the same shape. Just as clouds driven by the wind are forced into this or that figure but cannot retain one constant form, so she is pursued by Nature's fire. This fire and this water are like two lovers: no sooner do they meet than they begin to play, and the game will not end until some new child is generated. I have often marvelled at their subtle, perpetual motion, for at all times and in all places these two are busy. This occasioned Trismegistus's notable saying that action was God's life. But most excellent and commanding is the utterance of Marcus Antoninus, who, in his discourse to himself, truly speaks things worthy of himself. [New translation of the Greek:] “The nature of the whole loves nothing so much as changing all things and making new things like them.” [Vaughan’s own English rendering:] “The nature of the universe delights in nothing so much as altering all things and

then making their like again.” This is her tick-tack: she plays one game in order to begin another. Matter lies before her like a piece of wax, and she moulds it into every form and figure. Now she makes a bird, now a beast, now a flower, then a frog; she delights in her magical performances as people delight in their own fancies. Hence Orpheus calls her [New translation of the Greek epithets:] “the resourceful mother” and “she who dwells in ever-changing forms.” [Vaughan’s own English rendering:] “The mother who makes many things and ordains strange shapes or figures.” Nor does she behave like sinful parents who, having had their pleasure, care nothing for their child. She loves her children after making them, watches over them all, and provides even for her sparrows. It is strange to consider how she works privately as well as publicly, in remote solitudes and deserts as well as gardens where ladies smell her perfumes. In truth, she seeks to please herself more than others; hence many of her works, including the choicest, never come to light. Little children, newly come from her hands, dabble in dirt and water and other idle games enjoyed by no one but themselves. They are not yet captive, and therefore seek their own pleasures. But as they grow older, love or profit makes them shape

their actions to other people's desires. Some cockney wears his income on his back, but all his finery is wasted if his mistress fails to notice. Another fights, but his victory is lost unless it is printed: the world must hear of his valour. Nature, however, is a free spirit seeking no applause. She attends to no one more than herself, delighting in her magic as philosophers delight in their secret philosophy. Hence we find her busy in wildernesses and ruined places, where only the stars and planets watch her, as well as in pots on balconies. In a word, wherever Nature's fire finds the virgin mercury, he has found his love, and the two will set about their husbandry together. It is a pleasure that never cloys, for it continually offers fresh varieties. It is reported that Mark Antony, the famous but unfortunate Roman, sent an agent round the world to copy every handsome face so that, from so many excellent features, he might choose the most pleasing portrait for himself. Nature has much the same inclination. She holds infinite beautiful patterns within herself, and longs to see them all outside herself. This she cannot do without matter, for matter is her mirror. It makes her generate perpetually and imprint her conceptions in

matter, communicating life to it and shaping it according to her imagination. Through this practice she sets her fancy or idea outside herself—or, as the Peripatetics say, outside the intellect: beyond the divine mind, namely, in matter. But because the ideas are countless and different, the agent's pleasures are maintained by their variety—or, more properly, by his own fruitfulness. Among all the beauties the world affords, no two are entirely alike. Much could be said here about beauty: what it is, where it came from, and how it may be defaced, not only in its outward form but in its inward idea, and lost forever in both worlds. But I have no acquaintance with these pretty trifles. I have no mistress but Nature. I shall therefore leave fine ladies to fine lads and speak of my simple Ælia Lælia.