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THE REVIVAL OF MAGICK
Published in the International New York, New York, U.S.A. (pages 280-282)
It is in this somewhat dry disquisition, bordering as it does, I am afraid, on metaphysics, that is to be sought the reason for the revival of magick. Unless this explanation were first given, it might seem mere phenomenon of folly, an hysterical exacerbation due to over-civilization.
But assuming that irrefutable form of idealism which contents itself with the demonstration that, knowledge being a function of the mind, as the materialists not merely concede, but insist, the universe as we know it is equivalent to the contents of that mind; and assuming also that the mind contains a power able to control thought; then there is no absurdity in asserting that the mind may be master of matter. And the empirical rules laid down by the magicians of old may prove to some extent of use in practice.
Such rules are in fact the inheritance of the Magi. This is not the place to discuss the disputed cases of the Rosicrucians, of Comte de St. Germain, of Cagliostro, and others whose names will readily occur. The periods in which they lived are obscure, and the controversies sterile. But it is at least evident that some valid tradition lurked somewhere, for within the memory of living men are Eliphas Levi and his pupil Bulwer Lytton. Now it is not philosophical to suppose that Levi was an upstart genius, though he does claim to have "forced an answer from the ancient oracles" and indeed to have reconstituted magick. I do not believe this to be strictly true; I believe that Levi had living masters. But that Levi first translated ancient ideas into modern terms is undeniable. Moreover, the influence of the great master was enormous, even in spheres external to his particular orb. The revival of French Literature with Baudelaire [Charles Baudelaire], Balzac, Gautier, Verlaine, de Banville, d'Aurevilly, Haraucourt, Rollinat, the de Goncourts and a dozen other names of the first rank, was in a sense his work. It was he that formulated the philosophical postulates that made their art possible and triumphant. Such sentences as this: "A pure style is an aureole of holiness" may pass as the very canon of art. His reconciliations of right and duty, liberty and obedience, are cardinal to the gate of modern thought. I do not hesitate to assert that very soon "The Key of the Mysteries" will be recognised as the very incarnation of the spirit of his time.
In his book Levi offered to the Church a way out of the difficulties raised by the advance of Science. That she rejected it was her suicide; just as Napoleon's disdain of his political philosophy was written large in letters of blood at Wörth, Gravelotte, Metz and Sedan.
However, the few capable of initiation took Levi to their hearts; and from that hour the revival of magick has never been in doubt. At the moment almost of Levi's death the Theosophical Society was founded; and Blavatzsky's debt to the French Adept is the greatest of all her obligations. In England Anna Kingsford—a mere megaphone for Edward Maitland—was at work; also there was Mr. S. L. Mathers [MacGregor Mathers], a considerable magician who subsequently fell, and was smashed beyond recognition; and, in the nineties, the giant figure of Allan Bennett.
In magical literature itself we find, as is to be expected, a reflection of these facts. Ever since Christian Rosencreutz there is nothing serious and first-hand, until Eliphas Levi. The magical tradition was the basis of gracious fables like Undine, and of frivolities like the Rape of the Lock and its source the Comte de Gabalis. Sometimes it is treated more seriously, as in Lewis' "Monk," and Mrs. Shelly's "Frankenstein.” There are legends of Cagliostro, too, in Dumas' "Memoirs of a Physician," and there is the "Diable Boiteux," and the "Diable Amoreux.” Nor let ever be forgotten that terrible and true magical apologue "La peau de chagrin."
Casanova gives an admirable view of the matter, and Thackeray copies him cleverly enough in "Barry Lyndon.” But it is all hearsay.
Eliphas Levi comes up stage, and says plainly to the world: "I myself did such and such an operation of magick in such and such a place."
He wears a mask illegible enough, it is true; but we have at least oratio recta and not oratio obliqua. For which we who remember bitter schooldays thank God, and prefer Levi to Livy!
In his footsteps if Bulwer Lytton did not follow, it was because of his public career. He comes near it. Every one within even the widest ripple that is caused on the water of society when the Stone of the Wise is thrown therein knew that Sir Philip Duval's laboratory was an accurate description of Lytton's own magical cabinet. It was clear to all ripe intelligence that in "Zanoni" the author was seriously expounding his own beliefs, discussing his own problems, justifying his own career. In the "Strange Story" he recounts incidents surely seen with his own eyes.
Read his account of the evocation of a demon and his other of an ordeal, and compare them with the stories of Levi. Observe how the ancient directness revives in them, and contrast them with the sneering rubbish of the courtly abbé who wrote the Comte de Gabalis.
It is evident where the truth lies. And now let us turn to the evidence of men yet living.
Allen Bennett was born at the time of the Franco Prussian war. His father, an engineer, died when he was a young child, and his mother brought him up a strict Catholic.
When he was about 8 years old he happened to hear that if you repeated the "Lord's Prayer" backwards, the Devil would come. This enterprising infant at once set himself to learn it backwards, and, when letter-perfect, went into the garden and said it. Something—the Devil or one of his angels—did appear, and the child ran screaming in terror to the house.
We hear of nothing else of the same kind for a long while, and the same startling sporadic success is true of his first step in mysticism. When he was about 18, without any premonitory symptom, he was suddenly caught up in the trance called Shivadarshana. We cannot stop here to describe this; suffice it to say that it is the highest attainment in this line, save perhaps one, possible to man.
Its effect upon him was catastrophic; he realized instantly and without any doubts that no other state was worthy of a moments thought, and he unhesitatingly abandoned all. If perchance he might discover how to achieve of set purpose what had been thrust on him by destiny. His natural tendency to magic drew him into that line of work, and so at the age of 25 we find him already famous for his powers in this art.
He had a "blasting rod" constructed simply of the lustre of an old-fashioned chandelier, and he was always cheerfully ready to demonstrate its power by pointing it at any convenient sceptic, and paralyzing him for a few hours or days.
For more serious magical work he had a rod of almond tipped with a golden star of five points, each point engraved with a letter of the ineffable Name Jeheshua; in the centre was a diamond. With this he would trace mysterious figures in the air, and, visible to the ordinary eye, they would stand out in faint bluish light. On great occasions, working in a circle, and conjuring the spirits by the great names of the Key of Solomon or the "Enochian Calls" of spirits given him by Dr. Dee, he would obtain the creature necessary to his work in visible and tangible form. On one occasion he evoked Jupiter, and, through a series of accidents, was led to step out of his circle without effectively banishing the spirit. He was felled to the ground, and only recovered five or six hours later. But this was simply a single untoward incident in a career of almost monotonous success.
However, he was certainly a careless person. On one occasion he had consecrated a talisman of the Moon to cause rain. (As he lived in London, I cannot imagine why he did this!) To make it work it had to be immersed in water. He would put it in a basin or tumbler, and within a few minutes the clouds would gather and the rain begin; instructive to his pupils and beneficial to the country. But one day he lost the talisman. It worked its way into a sewer, and London had the wettest summer in the memory of man!
It was early in 1899 that I became the pupil of this great master. I say "great master," and I ask to be taken on trust, for in this account of magick it would be dull to dwell upon his true qualities; I must rather seek to amuse by recounting his misadventures. Incidentally, any magical manifestation whatever is a regrettable incident. Just as in war, even the greatest victories cost something. Every battle is an obstruction in the march of the conqueror
In order to explain my meeting with Allan Bennett it is necessary to give a short résumé of my own magical career.
I was in my third year at Cambridge when the call came. I had been intended for the Diplomatic Service, and had also a great ambition to be a poet. In fact, I had written many hundred thousand lines, all of which I diligently destroyed in one great holocaust of paraffin and paper a matter of eight years later. It now struck me quite suddenly that, even if I got the Embassy at Paris—why, who was ambassador a century before? I did not know, and nobody knew, or cared.
Even if I got fame like that of Aeschylus—why, who reads Aeschylus? A few scores only, even in a University where Classics are compulsory.
And, anyhow, one day or other the earth must fall into the sun, or go dead like the moon.
I saw the Vanity of Things. I must find some material to build my temple; something more permanent than the hearts and minds of men.
This conclusion came to me reasonably enough, yet with all the force of a vision. I cannot hope to convey the quality of the despair. I rushed to the Bookseller, ordered all works ever published on Alchemy, Magic, and the like, and spent the long winter nights in ploughing those dreary sands. I had not knowledge enough even to begin to understand them.
However, the magical capacity was there, as will be seen. "In my distress I called upon the Lord; and He inclined unto me and heard my cry."
This is indeed the essential quality of a magician, that he should be able, without obvious means, to send forth his will-currents to the desired quarters, and awake them to answer. It is not necessary that the reply should come magically; he should expect his will obeyed in the ordinary course of events. As an example, let me give the use I made of a talisman of Abramelin "to have books of magic.” When I consecrated it, I was childish enough to expect the instant appearance of a Genie with flames in his mouth and books in his hand. Instead of this, all that happened was that a man called to see me with just those books that I needed, for sale. The point of the story is that I spent weeks with all the booksellers in England, trying to get just those books. And the man knew nothing of that; he had come on impulse.
To return; one of the books that I had bought at Cambridge was the "Book of Black Magick and of Pacts," the catchpenny production of an ignorant, dipsomaniac, half-demented scholiast named Waite [Arthur Edward Waite], whose sole asset was a pompous jargon composed of obsolete words. In his preface he said—so far as one could understand—that he was in touch with more Masters, Adepts, Mahatmas, Rosicrucians and Hermetists [sic] than had ever appeared even in pseudo-occult literature.
To him I wrote for advice and received many folios of rigmarole in return. The only intelligible sentence was one in which he recommended me to read Von Eckartshausen's "Cloud Upon the Sanctuary.” This book spoke of a secret church, of a brotherhood of initiates, exactly filling the bill. I read this book over and over again at Wasdale Head in Cumberland, where I spent Easter of 1898 climbing with a splendid mountaineer, one of the three best the world has ever seen, but a terrible scoffer at all occult lore. However, I sent out my S.O.S. call to the Brotherhood, and this is what resulted:
In July, 1898, I was at a camp on the Schönbühl Glacier above Zermatt, and had gone down to the village for a respite from the constant snowstorms. In the Beer hall one night, like the young ass I was, I started to lay down the law on Alchemy. To hear me, one would think I had just discharged Nicolas Flamel for cleaning my athanor badly, and beaten Basil Valentine over the head for breaking my alembic!
One of the party took me quite seriously; he saw that my bombast concealed a real desire of knowledge. We walked to the hotel together. I saw that he really knew what I pretended to know, and I dropped my "side" and became the humble learner. I had promised myself to renew the conversation in the morning; to my consternation he had disappeared. I made a vigorous search, and three days later caught him as he was walking down the valley to Viége. I walked with him and never left him till he had promised to meet me in London and introduce me to a certain Brotherhood of which he spake darkly.
The rest of the story is short. In London he introduced me to a really great magician, one known to adepts as Frater Volo Noscere [George Cecil Jones], who introduced me to a true magical brotherhood. It was more than a year afterwards that I found myself again at a dead-center. Again I sent out the S.O.S. call from the city of Mexico. The next mail brought me a letter from Frater V. N. solving the questions which I had not asked! And again, two months later I sent out the call. This time a Master came from England to teach me a New Path—and who should it be but the mountaineer, who had always passed as a sceptic? At the moment of my first call he had been sitting opposite me at the fireplace, had been linked to me on the precipices of Scafell by a rope—if only I had the eyes to see him!
My life has been full of such incidents; if any one cry "coincidence," let him also admit that her long arm was very effectively pulled by my conjuration!
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