On 8 November 1620, a force of 26,000 Catholic soldiers belonging to Ferdinand II and placed under the command of the brilliant general, the Count of Tilly, marched against the 21,000 strong Protestant force of Frederick which was under the command of Prince Christian of Anhalt. The two armies met outside Prague on a gentle sloping field known as the Bílá hora – ‘White Mountain’. Within a few hours Frederick's army had been smashed. Prince Christian was made prisoner of the Catholics, and Frederick and Elizabeth barely managed to escape with their lives, leaving all their belongings behind.
Predictably Ferdinand II and the Catholic League took an abominable revenge on the rebellious Bohemian estates that had preferred Frederick, Protestantism, and perhaps a great deal more. Land and properties were confiscated, 27 leaders of the revolt were publicly beheaded and, to the horror of the Protestants, Catholicism was imposed as the only permitted faith in Bohemia. Those who refused to convert were ordered to leave the country and all their assets were confiscated.
It is estimated that over a quarter of million Bohemians chose to go into exile.66 Many went to Holland, others to England and some even made it to the New World. The beautiful dream that Frederick's rule would be the vector for a Europe-wide ‘Rosicrucian’ reformation had been proved to be just that – a beautiful dream.
But this did not mean that the dream died. It simply shifted its location – to England, which many would argue was its natural home (if John Dee was indeed the Father of Rosicrucianism): The opportunity for general reformation and the advancement of learning that the Rosicrucian Manifestos had proclaimed … had been lost in Germany through the collapse of the Frederickian movement. Those who had suffered from that bitter disappointment [came] to England, and those in England who bitterly regretted that the movement had not been supported, welcome[d] them.67
The previously ‘Invisible College’ of the Rosicrucian brotherhood was about to become very visible indeed …
And after the decease of King David, Solomon that was son unto David performed out the Temple his father had begun and had sent after Masons into divers lands and gathered them together so that he had four score thousand workers of stone and they were named Masons …
The Old Charges of Freemasonry, circa 1583
The Legendary history of [Free]masonry, of the actual art of building, is recounted in certain medieval poems [the Old Charges] … in these writings … architecture is identified with geometry. One account maintains that geometry was discovered before the Flood; another states that Abraham taught the Egyptians geometry. In yet another version … geometry is said to have been invented by the Egyptians …
Frances Yates, The Rosicrucian Enlightenment
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
EMERGENCE OF THE INVISIBLES
If a Christian Gnostic of the fifth century AD and a Cathar of the 13th century were to encounter one another in a time-warp they would find that they had much in common. Their views of the Roman Catholic Church as a diabolical agency would be identical. Their basic beliefs and theology would be the same. Their ascetic lifestyles would be the same.
Were our time-travelling pair then to be transferred to an encounter with a 16th or 17th century European Protestant they would discover much less common ground. Although they would share with him a commitment to a simple and unostentatious form of religion, their basic beliefs and theology would be as different from his as they would be from those of a Roman Catholic.
But there's an old saying – ‘my enemy's enemy is my friend.’
History shows, during their war to the death with the Roman Catholic Church in the 13th century, that the Cathars cooperated closely with another heretical sect, the Waldensians (or ‘Vaudois’) founded by one Peter Waldes in Lyons in the late 12th century.1 In their simplicity and austerity, their distrust of sacraments administered by unworthy ministers, their opposition to the veneration of saints and relics, and many other aspects of their religion, these Waldensians were the true forerunners of the later Calvinist and Lutheran movements that came to define European Protestantism. Their argument, in other words, was primarily with the behaviour of the Roman Catholic Church but they accepted most of the tenets of Catholic doctrine that the Cathars vehemently rejected.2 Even so the Waldensians were violently persecuted by the Catholic authorities and it was in this shared experience of persecution, coupled with their shared detestation of ‘Romish’ vanity and ostentation, that the Cathars and the Waldensians found common cause.
In this book we are tracing the course through history of two interrelated underground religions, Gnosticism and Hermeticism.
Having survived centuries of persecution following the triumph of literalist Christianity in the Roman Empire, Gnosticism underwent a renaissance in 12th century Europe when it found support amongst the ruling barons of the semi-independent state of Occitania. That renaissance, as we've seen, was brought to a bloody end by the Albigensian Crusades in the 13th century – although the Gnostic religion undoubtedly lingered longer in the Balkans until it was finally snuffed out there by Islam in the 15th century.
Meanwhile, Hermeticism – which might be described as Gnosticism's pagan twin – slept in the West for a thousand years before suddenly and spectacularly waking up again when the Hermetic texts were rediscovered and brought to Florence in the 15th century. It then enjoyed an amazing and highly enigmatic period of papal favour during the 16th century, documented in Chapter Eight, before the Vatican finally recognised it for what it was – a deadly heresy that would bring Catholicism to its knees if it could. The Inquisition's renewed interest in the matter, sending a clear signal of its intentions to all who sought to bring about a ‘general reformation of the world’, was marked by such acts as the torture and 27-year imprisonment of the Hermetic magus Tommaso Campanella, and the imprisonment, torture and savage burning in February 1600 of Giordano Bruno, the greatest magus of them all.3
Just as the Cathars had made common cause in the 13th century with the Waldensians, so too it was natural for the Hermetic and Rosicrucian visionaries who roamed Europe in the 15th, 16th and 17th centuries to make common cause with the Protestants of their time. The principle of my enemy's enemy being my friend still applied. And just as the Cathars had needed secular political support in order to become a force to be reckoned with – one that could actually change the world – so too the Hermetists and Rosicrucians of the 15th, 16th and 17th centuries needed secular political support, and for the same reason. Only in very exceptional cases – e.g. the ageing Campanella at the court of Louis XIII – were they likely to receive that support from Catholic rulers. Inevitably therefore we find key Hermetic and Rosicrucian figures turning up repeatedly in areas of Protestant influence – e.g. Bruno's travels in Germany between 1586 and 1591 – and congregating in large numbers around Protestant monarchs such as Frederick V, the elector of the County Palatine of the Rhine.
Bruno, for one, was as outspokenly honest with his wealthy and influential Protestant sponsors as he was with everyone else: he was not a Protestant and would not become one; he sought only their protection and simply wished to continue his studies in peace.4 But we may confidently suppose that other Hermetic free-thinkers preferred to adopt a lower profile and to blend in, as perfectly as possible, amongst their Protestant hosts. These were uncertain, violent, highly volatile times and, since the terrible destruction of the Cathars, common sense had taught most heretics the wisdom of ‘invisibility’ – whether they found themselves amongst Protestants or Catholics.
Indeed was it not precisely this quality of ‘invisibility’ that was most emphasised in the Rosicrucian Manifestos? The reader will recall from Chapter Twelve that the Fama speaks of a ‘magical language and writing’ that had been developed by the early Rosicrucian brothers, presumably for secretive communications amongst themselves. The Fama additionally reports that the brothers are distributed about the world and, as a deliberate policy, wear no distinguishing garments but follow the custom of whichever country they find
themselves in.5 In other words they blend in – the way, perhaps Johann Valentin Andreae blended in as a straight-thinking Lutheran pastor whilst pursuing his Rosicrucian and Hermetic interests. It may be a mark of his success as a Rosicrucian ‘invisible’ that even today we cannot be one hundred per cent certain whether he was ‘just’ a Lutheran pastor and academic with some unconventional interests. Or was he, as most scholars believe, the author of the Chemical Wedding – the Rosicrucian statement of faith?
The Rosicrucian Manifestos speak, ultimately, of the existence of an ‘Invisible College’, working behind the scenes, through existing institutions for the moment, blending-in until the time comes when it can reveal itself to the world. What it seeks is a great general reformation of religion and society. And though the word ‘reformation’ in this context was itself perhaps chosen for its political correctness and acceptability in Protestant circles we are quite certain that it was not meant in the Protestant sense at all. It's very obvious from the Rosicrucian example that, veiled within Protestant religious bodies, organisations and power structures of the early 17th century, there were people whose agenda was much closer to Giordano Bruno's deeply heretical ‘Egyptian’ idea of the Hermetic reformation of Europe, and who might yet heed Tommaso Campanella's call to build the City of the Sun.
Eyes turn to England and the New World
We saw in the last chapter that on 8 November 1620 the Catholic forces of the Holy Roman Emperor Ferdinand II inflicted a devastating defeat on the Protestant forces of Frederick V, the elector of the Palatinate. The Bohemian estates were dragooned into Catholicism and a quarter of a million Protestant refugees fled, leaving all their worldly goods behind.
Amidst the massacres and the streams of refugees generated by this terrible ongoing conflict between Catholics and Protestants in central Europe, the opportunistic minds of some Hermetic thinkers would have turned naturally towards England, that great Protestant kingdom across the Channel. It would have stood out from the general background chaos of the Continent as a place where they still might hope to achieve universal reform based on advancement of learning.
Remember that Hermetic philosophers, conditioned by the characteristic sky-ground dualism of the Hermetic texts, were avid star watchers. We can therefore be sure that they would have been paying attention in December 1603, the year James I was crowned king of England, when there was an impressive conjunction of the planets Saturn and Jupiter, seen by astrologers to presage a new age.6 It was in the following year, 1604, that the ‘opening’ of the tomb of Christian Rosenkreutz, described in the Fama, supposedly took place, ushering in a renewed cycle of Rosicrucian activity. That year also witnessed the strange appearance of two new stars in the constellations of Serpentarius and Cygnus giving rise to a combustible mixture of huge fears and tremendous hopes.7
It's not difficult to understand how Hermeticists and Rosicrucians taking shelter amongst Lutheran and Calvinist Protestants in the beleaguered warzones of central Europe must have felt in this atmosphere. It should come as no surprise to learn, therefore, that for some the opening of the Stuart era in England was regarded as the foundation of a ‘New Jerusalem’, a land chosen by God that could lead the world into a new age of universal peace and enlightenment. We saw in the last chapter that such hopes were intensified by the widespread public perception – though it ultimately proved false – that a powerful alliance between the ‘Rhine and the Thames’, i.e. between Protestant England and Protestant Germany, had been cemented through the marriage of Frederick V of the Palatinate and Elizabeth of England.
But there was also another factor at work, one that must have loomed large in the collective subconscious of those seeking the great universal reform. This was the recent acquisition by England of vast and virgin territories in the Americas. A whole new continent had suddenly emerged on the other side of the Atlantic, a sort of ‘New Atlantis’ ready to be colonised by a new breed of European. Might it not be easier and better, some of these reformers must have thought, to put aside Europe and its religious troubles altogether and to build instead, a completely new society on a clean slate in this untarnished ‘new world’ – a reformed society, furthermore, that could be dedicated to the pursuit of happiness, justice and the advancement of learning?
This was the context in which the great English visionary, Francis Bacon, was to publish a series of books that would galvanise the intellectuals of Europe.
Hermetic Bacon
Francis Bacon (1561 – 1626) was the son of the Lord Keeper of the Seal of Elizabeth I. At the age of 12 he was sent to Trinity College, Cambridge. At 18, finding himself virtually penniless after his father's death, he turned to law, and by the age of 23 Bacon had managed to win a seat in the House of Commons. Throughout his early career he was disliked by his peers and even distrusted by Elizabeth I, but after the queen's death in 1603 he found new royal favour and patronage under James I. With the king's support, Bacon quickly rose to fame and fortune, first as Lord Chancellor, then as Baron Verulam in 1618 and, finally, as Viscount St. Albans in 1621. However, Bacon's brilliant career in politics was to end in shame and dejection after he was accused of taking a bribe. He spent the rest of his life devoted to his writing.
It was in 1605, two years after the death of Elizabeth I, that Bacon published his epoch-making book The Advancement of Learning. Still hailed today as a cornerstone of education and science, this calm and measured work surveys the state of early 17th century knowledge and finds it wanting. If more attention were paid to research and experimentation, Bacon suggests, we could make much faster progress in understanding nature and thus improving the human condition. To this end, in his dedication of the book to his patron James I, he proposes the establishment of ‘a fraternity in learning and illumination’8 where scholars and the erudite of all countries could exchange knowledge and ideas for the benefit of humankind: Surely as Nature createth brotherhood in families, and arts mechanical contract brotherhoods in communities, and the anointment of God superinduceth a brotherhood in kings and bishops, so in learning there cannot but be a fraternity in learning and illumination, relating to that paternity which is attributed to God, who is called the father of illumination or lights.9
Let's not forget this was written in 1605, nine years before the publication of the Fama, yet the language is plainly Rosicrucian. The ‘fraternity in learning and illumination’ that Bacon wishes for is precisely what the Rosicrucians (though ‘invisible’) later claimed to be. We also note with interest that Bacon refers to God as the ‘father of illumination or lights’. The reader will recall from Chapter Thirteen that this same distinctive phrase – the ‘Father of Light’ – turns up in The Chemical Wedding of Christian Rosenkreutz, published in 1616. The phrase is not found anywhere in the Christian Bible. It was, however, in common usage in the early centuries of the Christian era amongst Manicheans and Gnostics as a reference to the God of Goodness. Likewise in the Hermetic texts of the same period we find frequent references to the spiritual, immaterial, first and greatest god as the God of Light. In the Pimander for example (a title that is itself derived from Peime-n-Ra, meaning the ‘knowledge of Ra’, the Egyptian sun-god) we may read: That Light … is I, even Mind, the first God, who was before the watery substance which appeared out of the Darkness.10
The above passage strikes an association not only between Light and the first God but also between both God and Mind. It likewise makes clear, in familiar dualistic terms, that all three (Light/Mind/God) are of a spiritual, non-material essence, different from, and preceding the ‘watery substance’, i.e. matter, that ‘appeared out of Darkness.’ These links are reinforced in the Asclepius: Gross matter … is the nutriment of bodies, and spirit is the nutriment of souls. But besides these, there is mind, which is the gift of heaven, and one with which mankind alone is blessed … By the light of mind the human soul is illumined.11
It is precisely this illumination of the human soul by the light of mind that the Rosicrucians claimed to be d
evoted to and that Bacon sought to bring about through his proposed international ‘fraternity in learning and illumination’. His choice of these particular words in his dedication to James I must, moreover, be understood in the wider context of the times. As the Italian scholar Paolo Rossi points out, the view of Frances Bacon as ‘a modern scientific observer and experimentalist emerging out of the superstitious past is no longer valid.’12 Rossi's research, backed up by Frances Yates shows that: It was out of the Hermetic tradition that Bacon emerged, out of the Magia and Cabala of the Renaissance as it had reached him via the natural magicians … Bacon's science is still, in part, occult science.13
The same science, natural philosophy and Hermetic magic were also advocated by Marsilio Ficino, Giovanni Pico della Mirandola, Giordano Bruno and the Rosicrucians. And what all sought to bring about was a universal revolution in learning promoted by an elite international fraternity of illuminati.
It can't be an accident that a fraternity fitting this description was soon to flourish in the British Isles and eventually to spread around the world: the fraternity of the Freemasons. Nor were we surprised to learn from our friend the Masonic historian Robert Lomas that both Francis Bacon and James I were, in all probability, Freemasons themselves – associated with the early formation of the so-called Scottish Rite. Indeed it seems that in addition to its obvious Hermetic and Rosicrucian content, the language used by Bacon in his dedication to James I is recognisably ‘Masonic language’ – i.e. a sort of allegorical system of communication used by Freemasons couched in symbolism and secret words and fully comprehensible only to initiates.14 Such an idea is, of course, identical to the ‘magical language and writing’ spoken of in the Rosicrucian Manifestos.15
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