Chapter 1

The library at Hurtfew

Autumn 1806-January 1807

SOME YEARS AGO there was in the city of York a society of
magicians. They met upon the third Wednesday of every month and
read each other long, dull papers upon the history of English
magic.

They were gentleman-magicians, which is to say they had never
harmed anyone by magic - nor ever done anyone the slightest good.
In fact, to own the truth, not one of these magicians had ever cast
the smallest spell, nor by magic caused one leaf to tremble upon a
tree, made one mote of dust to alter its course or changed a single
hair upon anyone's head. But, with this one minor reservation, they
enjoyed a reputation as some of the wisest and most magical
gentlemen in Yorkshire.

A great magician has said of his profession that its practitioners
". . . must pound and rack their brains to make the least learning
go in, but quarrelling always comes very naturally to
them",1 and the York magicians had
proved the truth of this for a number of years.

In the autumn of 1806 they received an addition in a gentleman
called John Segundus. At the first meeting that he attended Mr
Segundus rose and addressed the society. He began by complimenting
the gentlemen upon their distinguished history; he listed the many
celebrated magicians and historians that had at one time or another
belonged to the York society. He hinted that it had been no small
inducement to him in coming to York to know of the existence of
such a society. Northern magicians, he reminded his audience, had
always been better respected than southern ones. Mr Segundus said
that he had studied magic for many years and knew the histories of
all the great magicians of long ago. He read the new publications
upon the subject and had even made a modest contribution to their
number, but recently he had begun to wonder why the great feats of
magic that he read about remained on the pages of his book and were
no longer seen in the street or written about in the newspapers. Mr
Segundus wished to know, he said, why modern magicians were unable
to work the magic they wrote about. In short, he wished to know why
there was no more magic done in England.

It was the most commonplace question in the world. It was the
question which, sooner or later, every child in the kingdom asks
his governess or his schoolmaster or his parent. Yet the learned
members of the York society did not at all like hearing it asked
and the reason was this: they were no more able to answer it than
anyone else.

The President of the York society (whose name was Dr Foxcastle)
turned to John Segundus and explained that the question was a wrong
one. "It presupposes that magicians have some sort of duty to do
magic which is clearly nonsense. You would not, I imagine, suggest
that it is the task of botanists to devise more flowers? Or that
astronomers should labour to rearrange the stars? Magicians, Mr
Segundus, study magic which was done long ago. Why should anyone
expect more?"

An elderly gentleman with faint blue eyes and faintly-coloured
clothes (called either Hart or Hunt - Mr Segundus could never quite
catch the name) faintly said that it did not matter in the least
whether any body expected it or not. A gentleman could not do
magic.. Magic was what street sorcerers pretended to do in order to
rob children of their pennies. Magic (in the practical sense) was
much fallen off. It had low connexions. It was the bosom companion
of unshaven faces, gypsies, house-breakers; the frequenter of dingy
rooms with dirty yellow curtains. Oh no! A gentleman could not do
magic. A gentleman might study the history of magic (nothing could
be nobler) but he could not do any. The elderly gentleman looked
with faint, fatherly eyes at Mr Segundus and said that he hoped Mr
Segundus had not been trying to cast spells.

Mr Segundus blushed.

But the famous magician's maxim held true: two magicians -in this
case Dr Foxcastle and Mr Hunt or Hart ~ could not agree without two
more thinking the exact opposite. Several of the gentlemen began to
discover that they were entirely of Mr Segundus's opinion and that
no question in all of magical scholarship could be so important as
this one. Chief among Mr Segundus's supporters was a gentleman
called Honeyfoot, a pleasant, friendly sort of man of fifty-five,
with a red face and grey hair. As the exchanges became more bitter
and Dr Foxcastle grew in sarcasm towards Mr Segundus, Mr Honeyfoot
turned to him several times and whispered such comfort as, "Do not
mind them, sir. I am entirely of your opinion;" and "You are quite
right, sir, do not let them sway you;" and "You have hit upon it!
Indeed you have, sir! It was the want of the right question which
held us back before. Now that you are come we shall do great
things."

Such kind words as these did not fail to find a grateful listener
in John Segundus, whose shock shewed clearly in his face. "I fear
that I have made myself disagreeable," he whispered to Mr
Honeyfoot. "That was not my intention. I had hoped for these
gentlemen's good opinion."

At first Mr Segundus was inclined to be downcast but a particularly
spiteful outburst from Dr Foxcastle roused him to a little
indignation. "That gentleman," said Dr Foxcastle, fixing Mr
Segundus with a cold stare, "seems determined that we should share
in the unhappy fate of the Society of Manchester Magicians!"

Mr Segundus inclined his head towards Mr Honeyfoot and said, "I had
not expected to find the magicians of Yorkshire quite so obstinate.
If magic does not have friends in Yorkshire where may we find
them?"

Mr Honeyfoot's kindness to Mr Segundus did not end with that
evening. He invited Mr Segundus to his house in High-Petergate to
eat a good dinner in company with Mrs Honeyfoot and her three
pretty daughters, which Mr Segundus, who was a single gentleman and
not rich, was glad to do. After dinner Miss Honeyfoot played the
pianoforte and Miss Jane sang in Italian. The next day Mrs
Honeyfoot told her husband that John Segundus was exactly what a
gentleman should be, but she feared he would never profit by it for
it was not the fashion to be modest and quiet and
kind-hearted.

The intimacy between the two gentlemen advanced very rapidly. Soon
Mr Segundus was spending two or three evenings out of every seven
at the house in High-Petergate. Once there was quite a crowd of
young people present which naturally led to dancing. It was all
very delightful but often Mr Honeyfoot and Mr Segundus would slip
away to discuss the one thing which really interested both of them
- why was there no more magic done in England? But talk as they
would (often till two or three in the morning) they came no nearer
to an answer; and perhaps this was not so very remarkable, for all
sorts of magicians and antiquarians and scholars had been asking
the same question for rather more than two hundred years.

Mr Honeyfoot was a tall, cheerful, smiling gentleman with a great
deal of energy, who always liked to be doing or planning something,
rarely thinking to inquire whether that something were to the
purpose. The present task put him very much in mind of the great
mediaeval magicians,2 who, whenever
they had some seemingly impossible problem to solve, would ride
away for a year and a day with only a fairy-servant or two
to guide them and at the end of this time never failed to find the
answer. Mr Honeyfoot told Mr Segundus that in his opinion they
could not do better than emulate these great men, some of whom had
gone to the most retired parts of England and Scotland and Ireland
(where magic was strongest) while others had ridden out of this
world entirely and no one nowadays was quite clear about where they
had gone or what they had done when they got there. Mr Honeyfoot
did not propose going quite so far - indeed he did not wish to go
far at all because it was winter and the roads were very shocking.
Nevertheless he was strongly persuaded that they should go
somewhere and consult someone. He told Mr Segundus that he
thought they were both growing stale; the advantage of a fresh
opinion would be immense. But no destination, no object presented
itself. Mr Honeyfoot was in despair: and then he thought of the
other magician.

Some years before, the York society had heard rumours that
there was another magician in Yorkshire. This gentleman lived in a
very retired part of the country where (it was said) he passed his
days and nights studying rare magical texts in his wonderful
library. Dr Foxcastle had found out the other magician's name and
where he might be found, and had written a polite letter inviting
the other magician to become a member of the York society.
The other magician had written back, expressing his sense of the
honour done him and his deep regret: he was quite unable - the long
distance between York and Hurtfew Abbey - the indifferent
roads - the work that he could on no account neglect - etc.,
etc.

The York magicians had all looked over the letter and
expressed their doubts that any body with such small handwriting
could ever make a tolerable magician. Then - with some slight
regret for the wonderful library they would never see - they had
dismissed the other magician from their thoughts. But Mr Honeyfoot
said to Mr Segundus that the importance of the question, "Why was
there no more magic done in England?" was such that it would be
very wrong of them to neglect any opening. Who could say? - the
other magician's opinion might be worth having. And so he wrote a
letter proposing that he and Mr Segundus give themselves the
satisfaction of waiting on the other magician on the third Tuesday
after Christmas at half past two. A reply came very promptly; Mr
Honeyfoot with his customary good nature and good fellowship
immediately sent for Mr Segundus and shewed him the letter.
The other magician wrote in his small handwriting that he would be
very happy in the acquaintance. This was enough. Mr Honeyfoot was
very well pleased and instantly strode off to tell Waters, the
coachman, when he would be needed.

Mr Segundus was left alone in the room with the letter in his hand.
He read: ". . . I am, I confess, somewhat at a loss to account for
the sudden honour done to me. It is scarcely conceivable that the
magicians of York with all the happiness of each other's society
and the incalculable benefit of each other's wisdom should feel any
necessity to consult a solitary scholar such as myself. . ."

There was an air of subtle sarcasm about the letter; the writer
seemed to mock Mr Honeyfoot with every word. Mr Segundus was glad
to reflect that Mr Honeyfoot could scarcely have noticed or he
would not have gone with such elated spirits to speak to Waters. It
was such a very unfriendly letter that Mr Segundus found
that all his desire to look upon the other magician had quite
evaporated. Well, no matter, he thought, I must go because Mr
Honeyfoot wishes it - and what, after all, is the worst that can
happen? We will see him and be disappointed and that will be an end
of it.

The day of the visit was preceded by stormy weather; rain had made
long ragged pools in the bare, brown fields; wet roofs were like
cold stone mirrors; and Mr Honeyfoot's post-chaise travelled
through a world that seemed to contain a much higher proportion of
chill grey sky and a much smaller one of solid comfortable earth
than was usually the case.

Ever since the first evening Mr Segundus had been intending to ask
Mr Honeyfoot about the Learned Society of Magicians of Manchester
which Dr Foxcastle had mentioned. He did so now.

"It was a society of quite recent foundation," said Mr Honeyfoot,
"and its members were clergymen of the poorer sort, respectable
ex-tradesmen, apothecaries, lawyers, retired mill owners who had
got up a little Latin and so forth, such people as might be termed
half-gentlemen. I believe Dr Foxcastle was glad when they disbanded
- he does not think that people of that sort have any business
becoming magicians. And yet, you know, there were several clever
men among them. They began, as you did, with the aim of bringing
back practical magic to the world. They were practical men and
wished to apply the principles of reason and science to magic as
they had done to the manufacturing arts. They called it 'Rational
Thaumaturgy'. When it did not work they became discouraged. Well,
they cannot be blamed for that. But they let their disillusionment
lead them into all sorts of difficulties. They began to think that
there was not now nor ever had been magic in the world. They said
that the Aureate magicians were all deceivers or were
themselves deceived. And that the Raven King was an invention of
the northern English to keep themselves from the tyranny of the
south (being north-country men themselves they had some sympathy
with that). Oh, their arguments were very ingenious - I forget how
they explained fairies. They disbanded, as I told you, and one of
them, whose name was Aubrey I think, meant to write it all down and
publish it. But when it came to the point he found that a sort of
fixed melancholy had settled on him and he was not able to rouse
himself enough to begin."

"Poor gentleman," said Mr Segundus. "Perhaps it is the age. It is
not an age for magic or scholarship, is it sir? Tradesmen prosper,
sailors, politicians, but not magicians. Our time is past." He
thought for a moment. "Three years ago," he said, "I was in London
and I met with a street magician, a vagabonding, yellow- curtain
sort of fellow with a strange disfiguration. This man persuaded me
to part with quite a high sum of money-in return for which he
promised to tell me a great secret. When I had paid him the money
he told me that one day magic would be restored to England by two
magicians. Now I do not at all believe in prophecies, yet it is
thinking on what he said that has determined me to discover the
truth of our fallen state - is not that strange?" "You were
entirely right - prophecies are great nonsense," said Mr Honeyfoot,
laughing. And then, as if struck by a thought, he said, "We are two
magicians. Honeyfoot and Segundus," he said trying it out, as if
thinking how it would look in the newspapers and history books,
"Honeyfoot and Segundus - it sounds very well."

Mr Segundus shook his head. "The fellow knew my profession and it
was only to be expected that he should pretend to me that I was one
of the two men. But in the end he told me quite plainly that I was
not. At first it seemed as if he was not sure of it. There was
something about me . . . He made me write down my name and looked
at it a good long while."

"I expect he could see there was no more money to be got out of
you," said Mr Honeyfoot.

Hurtfew Abbey was some fourteen miles north-west of York. The
antiquity was all in the name. There had been an abbey but that was
long ago; the present house had been built in the reign of Anne. It
was very handsome and "square and solid-looking in a fine park full
of ghostly-looking wet trees (for the day was becoming rather
misty). A river (called the Hurt) ran through the park and a fine
classical-looking bridge led across it.

The other magician (whose name was Norrell) was in the hall to
receive his guests. He was small, like his handwriting, and his
voice when he welcomed them to Hurtfew was rather quiet as if he
were not used to speaking his thoughts out loud. Mr Honeyfoot who
was a little deaf did not catch what he said; "I get old, sir - a
common failing. I hope you will bear with me."

Mr Norrell led his guests to a handsome drawing-room with a good
fire burning in the hearth. No candles had been lit; two fine
windows gave plenty of light to see by - although it was a grey
sort of light and not at all cheerful.

Yet the idea of a second fire, or candles, burning somewhere in the
room kept occurring to Mr Segundus, so that he continually turned
in his chair and looked about him to discover where they might be.
But there never was anything - only perhaps a mirror or an antique
clock.

Mr Norrell said that he had read Mr Segundus's account of the
careers of Martin Pale's fairy-servants.3 "A creditable piece of work, sir, but you left out
Master Fallow thought. A very minor spirit certainly, whose
usefulness to the great Dr Pale was questionable.4 Nevertheless your little history was incomplete
without him."

There was a pause. "A fairy-spirit called Fallowthought, sir?" said
Mr Segundus, "I . . . that is . . . that is to say I never heard of
any such creature- in this world or any other."

Mr Norrell smiled for the first time - but it was an inward sort of
smile. "Of course," he said, "I am forgetting. It is all in
Holgarth and Pickle's history of their own dealings with Master
Fallowthought, which you could scarcely have read. I congratulate
you - they were an unsavoury pair - more criminal than magical: the
less one knows of them the better." "Ah, sir!" cried Mr Honeyfoot,
suspecting that Mr Norrell was speaking of one of his books. "We
hear marvellous things of your library. All the magicians in
Yorkshire fell into fits of jealousy when they heard of the great
number of books you had got!"

"Indeed?" said Mr Norrell coldly. "You surprise me. I had no idea
my affairs were so commonly known. . . I expect it is
Thoroughgood," he said thought- fully, naming a man who sold books
and curiosities in Coffee-yard in York.

"Childermass has warned me several times that Thoroughgood is a
chatterer."

Mr Honeyfoot did not quite understand this. If he had had
such quantities of magical books he would have loved to talk of
them, be complimented on them, and have them admired; and he could
not believe that Mr Norrell was not the same. Meaning therefore to
be kind and to set Mr Norrell at his ease (for he had taken it into
his head that the gentleman was shy) he persisted: "Might I be
permitted to express a wish, sir, that we might see your wonderful
library?"

Mr Segundus was certain that Norrell would refuse, but instead Mr
Norrell regarded them steadily for some moments (he had small blue
eyes and seemed to peep out at them from some secret place inside
himself) and then, almost graciously, he granted Mr Honeyfoot's
request. Mr Honeyfoot was all gratitude, happy in the belief that
he had pleased Mr Norrell as much as himself.

Mr Norrell led the other two gentlemen along a passage - a very
ordinary passage, thought Mr Segundus, panelled and floored with
well-polished oak, and smelling of beeswax; then there was a
staircase, or perhaps only three or four steps; and then another
passage where the air was somewhat colder and the floor was good
York stone: all entirely unremarkable. (Unless the second passage
had come before the staircase or steps? Or had there in truth peen
a staircase at all?) Mr Segundus was one of those happy gentlemen
who can always say whether they face north or south, east or west.
It was not a talent he took any particular pride in - it was as
natural to him as knowing that his head still stood upon his
shoulders - but in Mr Norrell's house his gift deserted him. He
could never afterwards picture the sequence of passageways and
rooms through which they had passed, nor quite decide how long they
had taken to reach the library. And he could not tell the
direction; it seemed to him as if Mr Norrell had discovered some
fifth point of the compass -not east, nor south, nor west, nor
north, but somewhere quite different and this was the direction in
which he led them. Mr Honeyfoot, on the other hand, did not appear
to notice any thing odd.

The library was perhaps a little smaller than the drawing-room they
had just quitted. There was a noble fire in the hearth and all was
comfort and quiet. Yet once again the light within the room did not
seem to accord with the three tall twelve-paned windows, so that
once again Mr Segundus was made uncomfortable by a persistent
feeling that there ought to have been other candles in the room,
other windows or another fire to account for the light. What
windows there were looked out upon a wide expanse of dusky English
rain so that Mr Segundus could not make out the view nor guess
where in the house they stood.

The room was not empty; there was a man sitting at a table who rose
as they entered, and whom Mr Norrell briefly declared to be
Childermass, his man of business.

Mr Honeyfoot and Mr Segundus, being magicians themselves, had not
needed to be told that the library of Hurtfew Abbey was dearer to
its possessor than all his other riches; and they were not
surprized to discover that Mr Norrell had constructed a beautiful
jewel box to house his heart's treasure.

The bookcases which lined the walls of the room were built of
English woods and resembled Gothic arches laden with carvings.
There were carvings of leaves (dried and twisted leaves, as if the
season the artist had intended to represent were autumn), carvings
of intertwining roots and branches, carvings of berries and ivy -
all wonderfully done. But the wonder of the bookcases was nothing
to the wonder of the books. The first thing a student of magic
learns is that there are books about magic and books
of magic. And the second thing he learns is that a perfectly
respectable example of the former may be had for two or three
guineas at a good bookseller, and that the value of the latter is
above rubies.5 The collection of the
York society was reckoned very fine - almost remarkable; among its
many volumes were five works written between 1550 and 1700 and
which might reasonably be claimed as books of magic (though one was
no more than a couple of ragged pages). Books of magic are rare and
neither Mr Segundus nor Mr Honeyfoot had ever seen more than two or
three in a private library. At Hurtfew all the walls were lined
with bookshelves and all the shelves were filled with books. And
the books were all, or almost all, old books; books of magic. Oh!
to be sure many had clean modern bindings, but clearly these were
volumes which Mr Norrell had had rebound (he favoured, it seemed,
plain calf with the titles stamped in neat silver capitals). But
many had bindings that were old, old, old, with crumbling spines
and corners.

Mr Segundus glanced at the spines of the books on a nearby shelf;
the first title he read was How to putte Questiones to the Dark
and understand its Answeres.

"A foolish work," said Mr Norrell. Mr Segundus started - he had not
known his host was so close by. Mr Norrell continued, "I would
advise you not to waste a moment's thought upon it."

So Mr Segundus looked at the next book which was Belasis's
Instructions. "You know Belasis, I dare say?" asked Mr
Norrell.

"Only by reputation, sir," said Mr Segundus, "I have often heard
that he held the key to a good many things, but I have also heard -
indeed all the authorities agree - that every copy of The
Instructions was destroyed long ago. Yet now here it is! Why,
sir, it is extraordinary! It is wonderful!"

"You expect a great deal of Belasis," remarked Norrell, "and once
upon a time I was entirely of your mind. I remember that for many
months I devoted eight hours out of every twenty-four to studying
his work; a compliment, I may say, that I have never paid any other
author. But ultimately he is disappointing. He is mystical where he
ought to be intelligible - and intelligible where he ought to be
obscure. There are some things which have no business being put
into books for all the world to read. For myself I no longer have
any very great opinion of Belasis."

"Here is a book I never even heard of sir," said Mr Segundus,
"The Excellences of Christo- Judaic Magick. What can you
tell me of this?"

"Ha!" cried Mr Norrell. "It dates from the seventeenth century, but
I have no great opinion of it. Its author was a liar, a drunkard,
an adulterer and a rogue. I am glad he has been so completely
forgot."

It seemed that it was not only live magicians which Mr Norrell
despised. He had taken the measure of all the dead ones too and
found them wanting.

Mr Honeyfoot meanwhile, his hands in the air like a Methodist
praising God, was walking rapidly from bookcase to bookcase; he
could scarcely stop long enough to read the title of one book
before his eye was caught by another on the other side of the room.
"Oh, Mr Norrell!" he cried. "Such a quantity of books! Surely we
shall find the answers to all our questions here!"

"I doubt it, sir," was Mr Norrell's dry reply.

The man of business gave a short laugh - laughter which was clearly
directed at Mr Honeyfoot, yet Mr Norrell did not reprimand him
either by look or word, and Mr Segundus wondered what sort of
business it could be that Mr Norrell entrusted to this person. With
his long hair as ragged as rain and as black as thunder, he would
have looked quite at home upon a windswept moor, or lurking in some
pitch-black alleyway, or perhaps in a novel by Mrs Radcliffe.

Mr Segundus took down The Instructions of Jacques Belasis
and, despite Mr Norrell's poor opinion of it, instantly hit upon
two extraordinary passages.6 Then,
conscious of time passing and of the queer, dark eye of the man of
business upon him, he opened The Excellences of Christo-Judaic
Magick. This was not (as he had supposed) a printed book, but a
manuscript scribbled down very hurriedly upon the backs of all
kinds of bits of paper, most of them old ale-house bills. Here Mr
Segundus read of wonderful adventures. The seventeenth-century
magician had used his scanty magic to battle against great and
powerful enemies: battles which no human magician ought to have
attempted. He had scribbled down the history of his patchwork
victories just as those enemies were closing around him. The author
had known very well that, as he wrote, time was running out for him
and death was the best that he could hope for.

The room was becoming darker; the antique scrawl was growing dim on
the page. Two footmen came into the room and, watched by the
unbusiness- like man of business, lit candles, drew window curtains
and heaped fresh coals upon the fire. Mr Segundus thought it best
to remind Mr Honeyfoot that they had not yet explained to Mr
Norrell the reason for their visit.

As they were leaving the library Mr Segundus noticed something he
thought odd. A chair was drawn up to the fire and by the chair
stood a little table. Upon the table lay the boards and leather
bindings of a very old book, a pair of scissars and a strong,
cruel-looking knife, such as a gardener might use for pruning. But
the pages of the book were nowhere to be seen. Perhaps, thought Mr
Segundus, he has sent it away to be bound anew. Yet the old binding
still looked strong and why should Mr Norrell trouble himself to
remove the pages and risk damaging them? A skilled bookbinder was
the proper person to do such work.

When they were seated in the drawing-room again, Mr Honeyfoot
addressed Mr Norrell. "What I have seen here today, sir, convinces
me that you are the best person to help us. Mr Segundus and I are
of the opinion that modern magicians are on the wrong path; they
waste their energies upon trifles. Do not you agree, sir?"

"Oh! certainly," said Mr Norrell. "Our question," continued Mr
Honeyfoot, "is why magic has fallen from its once-great state in
our great nation. Our question is, sir, why is no more magic done
in England?"

Mr Norrell's small blue eyes grew harder and brighter and his lips
tightened as if he were seeking to suppress a great and secret
delight within him. It was as if, thought Mr Segundus, he had
waited a long time for someone to ask him this question and had had
his answer ready for years. Mr Norrell said, "I cannot help you
with your question, sir, for I do not understand it. It is a wrong
question, sir. Magic is not ended in England. I myself am quite a
tolerable practical magician."

Footnotes:

1. The History and Practice of English Magic, by Jonathan
Strange, vol. I, chap. 2, pub. John Murray, London, 1816.

2. More properly called Aureate or Golden Age
magicians.

3. A Complete Description of Dr Pale's fairy-servants, their
Names, Histories, Characters and the Services they performed for
Him by John Segundus, pub. by Thomas Burnham, Bookseller,
Northampton, 1799.

4. Dr Martin Pale (1485-1567) was the son of a Warwick
leather-tanner. He was the last of the Aureate or Golden Age
magicians. Other magicians followed him (c.f. Gregory Absalom) but
their reputations are debatable. Pale was certainly the last
English magician to venture into Faerie.

5. Magicians, as we know from Jonathan Strange's maxim, will
quarrel about any thing and many years and much learning has been
applied to the vexed question of whether such and such a volume
qualifies as a book of magic. But most laymen find they are served
well enough by this simple rule: books written before magic ended
in England are books of magic, books written later are books about
magic. The principle, from which the layman's rule of thumb
derives, is that a book of magic should be written by a practising
magician, rather than a theoretical magician or a historian of
magic. What could be more reasonable? And yet already we are in
difficulties. The great masters of magic, those we term the Golden
Age or Aureate magicians (Thomas Godbless, Ralph Stokesey,
Catherine of Winchester, the Raven King) wrote little, or little
has survived. It is probable that Thomas Godbless could not write.
Stokesey learnt Latin at a little grammar school in his native
Devonshire, but all that we know of him comes from other
writers.

Magicians only applied themselves to writing books when magic was
already in decline. Darkness was already approaching to quench the
glory of English magic; those men we call the Silver Age or
Argentine magicians (Thomas Lanchester, 1518-90; Jacques
Belasis, 1526-1604:; Nicholas Goubert, 1535-78; Gregory Absalom,
1507-99) were flickering candles in the twilight; they were
scholars first and magicians second. Certainly they claimed to do
magic, some even had a fairy-servant or two, but they seem to have
accomplished very little in this way and some modem scholars have
doubted whether they could do magic at all.

6. The first passage which Mr Segundus read concerned England,
Faerie (which magicians sometimes call "the Other Lands") and a
strange country that is reputed to lie on the far side of Hell. Mr
Segundus had heard something of the symbolic and magical bond which
links these three lands, yet never had he read so clear an
explanation of it as was put forward here.

The second extract concerned one of England's greatest magicians,
Martin Pale. In Gregory

Absalom's The Tree of Learning there is a famous passage
which relates how, while journeying through Faerie, the last of the
great Aureate magicians, Martin Pale, paid a visit to a
fairy-prince. Like most of his race the fairy had a great multitude
of names, honorifics, titles and pseudonyms; but usually he was
known as Cold Henry. Cold Henry made a long and deferential speech
to his guest. The speech was full of metaphors and obscure
allusions, but what Cold Henry seemed to be saying was that fairies
were naturally wicked creatures who did not always know when they
were going wrong. To this Martin Pale briefly and somewhat
enigmatically replied that not all Englishmen have the same size
feet.

For several centuries no one had the faintest idea what any of this
might mean, though several theories were advanced - and John
Segundus was familiar with all of them. The most popular was that
developed by William Pantler in the early eighteenth century.
Pantler said that Cold Henry and Pale were speaking of theology.
Fairies (as everybody knows) are beyond the reach of the Church; no
Christ has come to them, nor ever will- and what is to become of
them on Judgement Day no one knows. According to Pantler Cold Henry
meant to enquire of Pale if there was any hope that fairies, like
men, might receive Eternal Salvation. Pale's reply ~ that
Englishmen's feet are different sizes was his way of saying that
not all Englishmen will be saved. Based on this Pantler goes on to
attribute to Pale a rather odd belief that Heaven is large enough
to hold only a finite number of the Blessed; for every Englishmen
who is damned, a place opens up in Heaven for a fairy. Pantler's
reputation as a theoretical magician rests entirely on the book he
wrote on the subject

In Jacques Belasis's Instructions Mr Segundus read a very
different explanation. Three centuries before Martin Pale set foot
in Cold Henry's castle Cold Henry had had another human visitor, an
English magician even greater than Pale ~ Ralph Stokesey - who had
left behind him a pair of boots. 'The boots, said Belasis, were
old, which is probably why Stokesey did not take them with him, but
their presence in the castle caused great consternation to all its
fairy-inhabitants who held English magicians in great veneration.
In particular Cold Henry was in a pickle because he feared that in
some devious, incomprehensible way, Christian morality might hold
him responsible for the loss of the boots. So he was trying to rid
himself of the terrible objects by passing them on to Pale who did
not want them.

-------------

From JONATHAN STRANGE AND MR NORRELL by Susanna Clarke, chapter 1,
pages 3-15. Text copyright by Susanna Clarke; illustrations
copyright by Portia Rosenberg. All rights reserved. No part of this
book maybe reproduced without written permission from the
publisher, Tor Books.