Diotimos Reading Desk

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Reading language

To the Reader

Good fortune to the dodecahedron! I have examined this book’s nativity by casting constellated bones, and two-and-one tells me this parable. Truth, said the witty Alemán, was ordered into exile, and Lady Lie was seated on her throne. To fulfil this sentence, Truth departed from humankind; but she went alone, poor and naked. She had not travelled far when, standing on a high mountain, she saw a great procession passing. In its midst was a chariot attended by kings,

princes and governors, and in it a stately lady who, like a reigning queen, commanded the rest of the company. Poor Truth stood still while this splendid company passed; but when the chariot came level with her, Lady Lie, seated there, noticed her. Stopping her pageant, she ordered Truth to come closer. She was scornfully questioned: where had she come from, where was she going, and on what business? She answered, as Truth customarily does, very simply and plainly. Lady Lie then ordered her to attend her, at the rear and tail of the entire procession, for that was Truth’s recognised place. Thanks, then, to the configurations of the dice rather than the stars! They have told me my future fortunes and the advancement my book is likely to achieve. For my part, I am content, although the thought

of this filthy rear is nauseating enough to spoil a stronger stomach than mine. It was said long ago: [New translation of the Latin:] “There is no plant of truth upon the earth.” [Vaughan’s own English rendering:] “Truth is an herb that does not grow here below.” Can I expect these few seeds, scattered in such storm and tempest, to thrive to their full ears and harvest? But, reader, do not be troubled to see Truth coming behind like this. There may be more pursuit than attendance in it, and her condition may not be altogether as bad as her position. If you are one of those drawing up to the chariot, pause a little here at the rear. Before addressing yourself to Aristotle and his Lady Lie, do not think your courtship wasted if you kiss poor Truth’s lips. I do not intend to jest with you in what I shall write. Read, therefore, in good faith what I shall tell you in good conscience. When God first made

humanity, he planted in it a spirit with the capacity to know everything, adding a most fervent desire for knowledge so that this capacity would not be useless. The truth of this is evident in humanity’s descendants. Before little children can speak, they stare at whatever is strange to them. They cry and remain restless until they get it into their hands, so that they can feel it and look at it: that is, know what it is to some degree, according to their capacity. An ignorant nurse may think they do all this from a wish to play with what they see; but the children themselves tell us otherwise. Once they are beyond infancy and begin to use language, if something new appears they do not ask to play with it, but ask what it is: they want to know. Their actions make this plain. Put a rattle into their hands,

and they will inspect and study it for a little while; only when they can learn no more will they play with it. It is well known that if you hold a candle near a little child, unless you prevent it, the child will put a finger into the flame, wanting to know what shines so brightly. Yet there is more: even these infants want to improve their knowledge. When they look at something, if sight does not sufficiently inform them, they will take it into their hands, if they can, to feel it. If touch does not satisfy them either, they will put it in their mouths to taste it, as though they wanted to examine things through more than one sense. This desire to know is born with them; it is the best and most mysterious part of their nature. Notice that when people reach full age and inquire seriously, they are ashamed to make mistakes,

because knowing is a property of their nature. Thus we see a philosopher blush when caught at fault in a discourse, as though he had done something unworthy of himself. Indeed, the feeling of disgrace prevails so far with some that they would rather persist in error and defend it against truth than acknowledge their weaknesses. In this respect I have no doubt that many Peripatetics are perversely ignorant. Perhaps they will scarcely hear what I say, or, hearing, will not understand. Nevertheless, I advise them not wilfully to obstruct and prevent that glorious end and perfection for which the very author and father of Nature created them. It is a terrible thing to prefer Aristotle to Elohim, and condemn God’s truth in order to justify human opinions. For my part, I dare not be so irreligious as to think God so vain and improvident in his

works that he would plant in humanity a desire for knowledge, yet deny it knowledge itself. In plain terms, that would be to give me eyes and then shut me in darkness lest I should see with them. This earnest longing and busy inquiry, in which people tire themselves seeking truth, led a certain master of truth to speak as follows. [New translation of the Latin:] “It is therefore clearly apparent that in this structure of the world which we behold some truth prevails: a truth which so often rouses, stirs, entangles and unravels our reason; which so often, when reason is restless, so often, when sleepless, solicits her in wonderful ways—not through chance attractions or those arriving from elsewhere, but through Nature’s own, proper and original enticements. Since none of this happens in vain, it follows that at some fitting time we eventually embrace the truth of the things that are.” [Vaughan’s own English rendering:] “It is therefore clear, he says, that in this fabric of the world which we behold some truth rules: a truth which so

often stirs up, puzzles and assists our reason; which so often solicits her when she is restless, so often when wakeful; and this by strange means, neither accidental nor arriving from outside, but by Nature’s genuine provocations and pleasures. Since none of these motions is without purpose, it follows that at some favourable time we attain true knowledge of the things that are.” But because I would not have you build your philosophy on corals and whistles—the objects of the little children of whom we spoke earlier—I shall say something about the elements in whose contemplation a person ought to occupy themselves. This discourse may serve as a preface to our whole philosophy. According to Trismegistus, humanity has only two elements in its power: earth and water. To this doctrine I add something received from one greater than Hermes: God has made humanity absolute

lord of the first matter; and from first matter and its distribution proceed all human fortunes, good and bad. According to the rule and measure of this substance, all the world is rich or poor. Whoever truly knows it, together with its true use, can make his fortunes constant; but whoever does not know it stands on a slippery foundation, however great his estate. Look around you, then, and consider how you are surrounded by infinite treasures and miracles; yet you are so blind that you do not see them. Indeed, you are so mad that you think no use can be made of them: you believe knowledge to be mere Peripatetic chatter, and its fruits to be words rather than works. If this were true, I would never advise you to spend a single minute of your life on learning. I would be among the first to destroy every library and university in the world—which God forbid any good

Christian should desire. Look up to heaven. When you see the celestial fires moving in their swift and glorious circles, consider also that here below are certain cold natures which they oversee, moving ceaselessly about them to heat and digest them. Consider, too, that the middle spirit—I mean air—is interposed as a cooler to temper and moderate a heat which might otherwise be too violent. If you descend lower and fix your thoughts where your feet are, so that, like Mercury, you may have wings at your heels, you will find earth surrounded by water. Heated and stirred by the sun and stars, this water draws from earth its pure, subtle, salt-like parts, becoming thickened and coagulated as though with rennet. From these two Nature generates all things. Gold, silver, pearls and diamonds are nothing but water and the salt of

25.A dodecahedron is twelve-faced. The opening places it beside a mock nativity cast with dice or “bones”; Deuz Ace is rendered as two-and-one. The following parable is credited by Vaughan to Alemán.

26.The Lady Lie and the banished Truth form the story’s personified figures. Their procession becomes an image for the book’s expected reception and, later, its challenge to Aristotle.

27.The Latin saying receives a fresh translation before Vaughan’s own following English version. His change from plant to herb, and the subsequent seed-and-harvest image, remain visible.

28.These examples of children’s looking, touching and tasting support Vaughan’s claim that the desire for knowledge is native to human beings. They are preserved as his observations and argument, including the candle example.

29.The TCP transcription reads “Besi”; native print clearly gives “Best,” the reading used here.

30.Peripatetics are followers of Aristotle’s philosophical tradition. Elohim is the divine name Vaughan contrasts with Aristotle; the modern spelling does not erase the theological force of that contrast.

31.Vaughan introduces this Latin quotation as the statement of a master of truth without naming its author here. The new translation retains the successive actions upon reason, including entangling and unravelling, before his own English version follows. The latter continues in the next source unit.

32.“Corals and whistles” refer back to children’s objects. The move to earth and water shifts the scale of inquiry rather than withdrawing the earlier account of learning through the senses.

33.Concoction here is rendered as digestion: a transformative working by heat within Vaughan’s natural philosophy. Rennet supplies his comparison for the thickening of water; no modern chemical identity is substituted for the unnamed matter.