Such books of occult studies contain astrological correspondences, lists of angels and demons, instructions casting spells and incantations, herbal medicines, summoning supernatural entities, and crafting talismans.
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In his influential work The Philosophy of Natural Magic, Agrippa combined magic, astrology, Qabbalah, theurgy, medecine, and the occult properties of plants, rocks, and metals. This work was an important factor in the spread of the idea of occult sciences.
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Both my parents, by the standards of that time and place, were bookishor "clever" people. My mother had been a promising mathematician in heryouth and a B.A. of Queen's College, Belfast, and before her death wasable to start me both in French and Latin. She was a voracious reader ofgood novels, and I think the Merediths and Tolstoys which I haveinherited were bought for her. My father's tastes were quite different.He was fond of oratory and had himself spoken on political platforms inEngland as a young man; if he had had independent means he wouldcertainly have aimed at a political career. In this, unless his sense ofhonour, which was fine to the point of being Quixotic, had made himunmanageable, he might well have succeeded, for he had many of the giftsonce needed by a Parliamentarian--a fine presence, a resonant voice,great quickness of mind, eloquence, and memory. Trollope's politicalnovels were very dear to him; in following the career of Phineas Finn hewas, as I now suppose, vicariously gratifying his own desires. He wasfond of poetry provided it had elements of rhetoric or pathos, or both;I think Othello was his favourite Shakespearian play. He greatlyenjoyed nearly all humorous authors, from Dickens to W. W. Jacobs, andwas himself, almost without rival, the best raconteur I have everheard; the best, that is, of his own type, the type that acts all thecharacters in turn with a free use of grimace, gesture, and pantomime.He was never happier than when closeted for an hour or so with one ortwo of my uncles exchanging "wheezes" (as anecdotes were oddly called inour family). What neither he nor my mother had the least taste for wasthat kind of literature to which my allegiance was given the moment Icould choose books for myself. Neither had ever listened for the hornsof elfland. There was no copy either of Keats or Shelley in the house,and the copy of Coleridge was never (to my knowledge) opened. If I am aromantic my parents bear no responsibility for it. Tennyson, indeed, myfather liked, but it was the Tennyson of In Memoriam and LocksleyHall. I never heard from him of the Lotus Eaters or the Morted'Arthur. My mother, I have been told, cared for no poetry at all.
In 1905, my seventh year, the first great change in my life took place.We moved house. My father, growing, I suppose, in prosperity, decided toleave the semi-detached villa in which I had been born and build himselfa much larger house, further out into what was then the country. The"New House", as we continued for years to call it, was a large one evenby my present standards; to a child it seemed less like a house than acity. My father, who had more capacity for being cheated than any man Ihave ever known, was badly cheated by his builders; the drains werewrong, the chimneys were wrong, and there was a draught in every room.None of this, however, mattered to a child. To me, the important thingabout the move was that the background of my life became larger. The NewHouse is almost a major character in my story. I am a product of longcorridors, empty sunlit rooms, upstair indoor silences, attics exploredin solitude, distant noises of gurgling cisterns and pipes, and thenoise of wind under the tiles. Also, of endless books. My father boughtall the books he read and never got rid of any of them. There were booksin the study, books in the drawing-room, books in the cloakroom, books(two deep) in the great bookcase on the landing, books in a bedroom,books piled as high as my shoulder in the cistern attic, books of allkinds reflecting every transient stage of my parents' interests, booksreadable and unreadable, books suitable for a child and books mostemphatically not. Nothing was forbidden me. In the seemingly endlessrainy afternoons I took volume after volume from the shelves. I hadalways the same certainty of finding a book that was new to me as a manwho walks into a field has of finding a new blade of grass. Where allthese books had been before we came to the New House is a problem thatnever occurred to me until I began writing this paragraph. I have noidea of the answer.
Of the books that I read at this time very few have quite faded frommemory, but not all have retained my love. Conan Doyle's Sir Nigel,which first set my mind upon "knights in armour", I have never feltinclined to reread. Still less would I now read Mark Twain's Yankee atthe Court of King Arthur, which was then my only source for theArthurian story, blissfully read for the sake of the romantic elementsthat came through and with total disregard of the vulgar ridiculedirected against them. Much better than either of these was E. Nesbit'strilogy, Five Children and It, The Phoenix and the Wishing Carpet,and The Amulet. The last did most for me. It first opened my eyes toantiquity, the "dark backward and abysm of time". I can still re-read itwith delight. Gulliver in an unexpurgated and lavishly illustratededition was one of my favourites, and I pored endlessly over an almostcomplete set of old Punches which stood in my father's study. Tennielgratified my passion for "dressed animals" with his Russian Bear,British Lion, Egyptian Crocodile and the rest, while his slovenly andperfunctory treatment of vegetation confirmed my own deficiencies. Thencame the Beatrix Potter books, and here at last beauty. 2ff7e9595c