Solomon's Secret Arts

by Paul Kléber Monod

  This short novel is an extraordinary performance. Purporting to be a true story from the Abbasid Caliphate, its central character is a young, self-indulgent caliph under the influence of a powerful mother. The latter is an adept in astrology and necromancy, although her spells are parodies of witchcraft and bear little relationship to ritual magic. After renouncing religion and devoting himself to a horrible Giaour or evil spirit, who demands the sacrifice of young boys, Vathek is promised “the diadem of Gian Ben Gian; the talismans of Solomon; and the treasures of the pre-adamite sultans.” After various encounters with lustful ghouls and talking fish, as well as a final warning from a good spirit, Vathek enters the palace of Eblis or Satan, where he is shown the talismans, kept within “cabalistic depositaries,” and beholds the “pre-adamite” Sultan Soliman himself, tortured for his impiety by a perpetually burning heart. Vathek's mother suffers a similar ghastly fate, while the caliph is merely condemned to an eternity without hope.47 Shaped by Beckford's own fantasies as well as by travellers’ accounts of the Middle East, Vathek does not obviously reflect any contemporary strain of occult thinking—indeed, the author would later regret that he knew nothing of actual astrology.48 Distancing itself from the charge of “superstition” by its Arabian setting, the text is careful to avoid heterodoxy: for example, by pointing out that Soliman is not the same as the biblical king. It answers charges of immorality with a final condemnation of excessive “curiosity.” Nonetheless, the novel plays with the notion that magic, or unlimited power, is both unlawful and temptingly real.

  For Beckford, the occult represents a full-fledged freedom of the imagination, for which the author himself may long, but which he cannot openly endorse, because it is so dangerous to conventional morality. As already mentioned, the shocking details were the author's own invention, as he was apparently not well informed about occult thinking of any variety. The library at Fonthill Abbey, the vast Gothic pile that he designed to house his fantasies, contained only three alchemical works among the twenty thousand volumes sold at an auction in 1823.49 Beckford's contemporary Matthew “Monk” Lewis, on the other hand, knew much more about occult practices, and went further in his fiction towards a kind of magical realism. Lewis's mother absconded with a music master when he was a child. By the time he inherited his father's Jamaican plantations in 1812, Lewis had become a critic of slavery, determined to improve the lives of slaves, although not necessarily to free them. His previous life had been marked by privilege as well as by rebelliousness. Lewis first embarked on a diplomatic career, journeying to the German court of Saxe-Weimar-Eisenach in 1792, where he met Goethe.50 If he was exposed to occult Freemasonry there or in Berlin, it could account for some of the themes in his first novel, The Monk, which he published in 1795, at the age of only nineteen. Rambling and sometimes incoherent, The Monk remains a compelling read, combining passionate emotion with diabolism and soft-core pornography.

  Lewis had clearly read manuals of ritual magic, like the Little Key of Solomon, on which he relied for an extraordinary scene in the novel, where the monk of the title, hoping to violate a lovely young woman, solicits the help of a nun in summoning up Satan:

  She led him through various narrow passages; and on every side as they past along, the beams of the Lamp displayed none but the most revolting objects; Skulls, Bones, Graves, and Images whose eyes seemed to glare on them with horror and surprize. At length they reached a spacious Cavern, whose lofty roof the eye sought in vain to discover … She motioned that Ambrosio should be silent, and began the mysterious rites. She drew a circle round him, another round herself, and then taking a small Phial from the Basket, poured a few drops upon the ground before her. She bent over the place, muttered some indistinct sentences, and immediately a pale sulphurous flame arose from the ground.

  Eventually, the Devil appears, in the unexpected form of a beautiful young man: “He was perfectly naked: A bright Star sparkled upon his fore-head: Two crimson wings extended themselves from his shoulders; and his silken locks were confined by a band of many-coloured fires, which played around his head.”51 Did the youthful Lewis identify with the handsome Lucifer? Was this winsome Satan the object of demonic, homoerotic desire? Did Lewis mean his readers to sympathize with the lecherous, magic-mad monk? The novel leaves these questions open to interpretation.

  Unlike Walpole or Radcliffe or even Beckford, Lewis did not try to distance himself from “superstition.” The supernatural is neither written off as a sign of the times nor explained in natural terms, and the objects of magic are not so fantastical as to be unreal, as in Vathek. Only the assumed fictitiousness of the narrative separates it from the occult stories found in Ebenezer Sibly's works. At the same time, The Monk lacks a redeeming religious vision of any sort. One searches in vain even for the sketchy warning against excessive curiosity that can be found in Vathek. Part of the sublime terror evoked by The Monk consists of guessing whether the author will himself fall into the pit of occult belief, dragging the unwitting reader along with him. Even at the end of the novel, we cannot be quite sure that he has avoided it. The cautious reader is still expected to arrive at moral judgments about the scenes laid out before him or her, but the text does not provide much assistance. We have begun to move here from the uncertain, self-conscious moral subversion of the Gothic novel to the Romantic exaltation in freedom from moral constraint, which flourished after 1800. The contrast with the earnestly pious occult literature of previous generations could not be more starkly displayed. It was the heterodoxy and intellectual daring of occult sources, not their longing for respectability, that would most impress the Romantics, from Samuel Taylor Coleridge to Lord Byron and Mary Shelley. The wicked antics of Lewis's Devil-worshipping monk pointed towards the appropriation of occult thinking by a generation of Romantic writers who would employ it to serve their own literary agendas.

  Supernatural Spectacles

  Lewis was not always so brave in depicting the occult. He followed up the success of The Monk by writing a popular play, The Castle Spectre (1798), which revolves around a ghost. In a postscript to the printed version of the play, Lewis defended himself against objections that the apparition “ought not to appear, because the belief in Ghosts no longer exists! In my opinion, this is the very reason why she may be produced without danger; for there is now no fear of increasing the influence of superstition, or strengthening the prejudices of the weak-minded.” Apparitions in a tragedy were as permissible as fairies in a pantomime, or gods and goddesses in a grand ballet.52 Theatricality became the last line of defence against the accusation that a writer was defying reason—after all, it was just a play, and the ghost a mere trick.

  This contention had long provided the basis for fairground conjuring, which did not claim to be actual magic. When Isaac Fawkes, who practised conjuring at the annual London fair known as Bartholomew Fair until his death in 1731, raised up an apple tree that bore ripe apples in less than a minute, it might be a wonderful trick, but it was not designed to evoke belief in magic. Conjurors of the mid-eighteenth century often mixed traditional occult terms with a “modern” scientific vocabulary so as to distinguish what they were doing from necromancy. The French conjuror “Comus,” for example, who made periodic visits to London in the 1760s and 1770s, exhibited a “Learned Mermaid,” an “Educated Clock” and the principle of “Perpetual Magnetic Motion,” all of them impossible but sounding very up to date.53 The most popular conjuring act of the last quarter of the century was that of the German Philip Breslaw, who obligingly spelled out how his tricks were performed in a pamphlet first printed in 1784. Entitled Breslaw's Last Legacy; or, The Magical Companion, it went through twelve editions by 1794, proving that the conjuror's legacy was both enduring and popular. Breslaw denied that his magic had anything to do with “the Black Art,” asserting, “Every thing in this book has its rise in nature, consequently is by no means criminal.” He was not being entirely truthful. The little book included instructions on how to make an air balloon, examp
les of legerdemain and “Strange Tricks performed by Electricity,” with a bow to “[t]he great Doctor Franklin,” but it also contained chapters on the interpretation of dreams (perfectly scriptural, according to Breslaw) and on fortune-telling—presented as an “innocent” diversion, but of dubious legality under the 1736 Witchcraft Act. Equally questionable was Breslaw's claim to use second sight in his performances.54

  In some conjuring books of this period, the distinction between deception and reality is deliberately obfuscated for commercial purposes. Perhaps the most astonishing example is The Key of Knowledge, or Universal Conjuror (1800) by Malcolm Macleod, who was apparently a Doctor of Divinity. The introduction to his work presents a diatribe against “superstitious curiosity,” which had led to widespread deception by “sharpers.” “By a careful acquaintance with the following treatise,” Macleod promises, “the reader will be enabled to develop the arts and methods used in deception by the sons of the occult science, and not only be guarded against their tricks, but may also, by dint of industry, become an adept himself in all the amusements here delineated.”55 Hence one could use Macleod's book not only to discover tricksters, but also to become one. Among the “amusements” he delineated were occult philosophy, consisting mostly of herbal remedies, and astrology. Not surprisingly, Macleod was also the author of a treatise on witchcraft and apparitions, which pretended to doubt their existence but affirmed that in fact spirits walked freely in the material world. Evidently a Scot by origin, Macleod cited numerous supernatural events from Scottish history, including a prophecy of the Apocalypse that he claimed had been found in a Hebridean cave by Samuel Johnson.56

  The showman who best personifies the confusion of theatrical spectacle with reality in the period is Dr Gustavus Katterfelto. Reportedly the son of a Prussian hussar officer, he appeared around Gloucester in 1777, became a sensation in London in the early 1780s and made several provincial tours, dying at Bedale, Yorkshire, in 1799. Although he specialized in the demonstration of scientific marvels, such as a solar microscope or phosphorus matches, which he falsely claimed to have invented, Katterfelto cultivated the appearance of a magician. He wore a long black cloak and cap, carried a wand and used a black cat to generate electrical sparks. He also did card tricks and sold a patent medicine to cure influenza, which he claimed arose from “insects” in drinking water. His shows were advertised as “WONDERS! WONDERS! WONDERS! And WONDERS!” and he puffed himself up as “the greatest philosopher in this kingdom since Sir Isaac Newton.” Audiences were promised that he would “shew his Occult Secrets” along with his famous solar microscope.57

  The distinction between theatricality and reality was more seriously explored by the artist Philippe Jacques de Loutherbourg, who had turned William Beckford's house into an enchanted Arabian palace at Christmas 1781. Born in Strasbourg and trained as a painter in Paris, Loutherbourg became a highly successful theatrical designer in London during the 1770s. Working for David Garrick at the Drury Lane Theatre, he was known for his striking and often spectacular scenic effects. In A Christmas Tale (1773), which dealt, unexpectedly enough, with magicians, Loutherbourg depicted spirits, demons and a rock that split apart to reveal a castle set in a fiery lake. A year later, he designed an ancient Egyptian set for Sethona, including a temple of Osiris and mysterious catacombs. The St. James’ Magazine complained of “the supernatural aid of unnecessary peals of thunder” used in this production.58 All of this could be dismissed as mere stagecraft, except that Loutherbourg believed in it as a reflection of real magic. As will be seen, he was one of the most ardent devotees of the occult in late eighteenth-century Britain.

  When, in February 1781, he opened a spectacle called the Eidophusikon at his house in Leicester Square, he did not mean it as an idle amusement. Described as “Moving Pictures” representing “Phoenomena of Nature,” it was in fact an animated diorama with stunning sound effects and lighting, showing five land and seascapes. By January 1782, Loutherbourg had added a final extravaganza: “SATAN arraying his TROOPS on the Banks of the FIERY LAKE, with the RAISING of the PALACE of PANDEMONIUM, from MILTON.” A harpsichord sonata was provided by Charles Burney, with vocal accompaniment. All this was to be experienced for the handsome price of five shillings. Perhaps “Pandemonium,” which involved Beelzebub, Moloch and thousands of demons, proved too frightening: Loutherbourg replaced it in March with a storm and shipwreck, along with four “Transparent Pictures,” including one entitled “An Incantation.” Nonetheless, when the show reopened in the Strand four years later, “Pandemonium” was back, and it may have remained part of the spectacle until 1800, when the dioramas were destroyed in a fire.59

  The Eidophusikon was one of a number of popular entertainments in the late eighteenth century that astonished audiences through their use of apparently occult effects. These shows not only employed the premise of the Gothic novel, that terror might be pleasurable, they also required a partial suspension of critical inquiry or disbelief. To appreciate the Eidophusikon, one had to imagine that the scene was real, rather than a picture in a box. This would become the premise for magic-lantern shows that depicted frightening illustrations of ghosts and demons. The first of them, the Phantoscopia, opened at the Lyceum, Westminster, in 1795. It was probably a copy of the Phantasmagoria, a show that was then terrifying Parisian audiences through the back-projection of images of the dead, including some that were cast onto smoke. Towards the end of 1801, an English version of the Phantasmagoria opened in London, under the direction of the mysterious Paul de Philipsthal. Having made a reputation for himself in central Europe among audiences that included occult Freemasons, Philipsthal was not reluctant to introduce ritual magic into his shows, including circles, candles, books and talking spirits.60 The Phantasmagoria represented the height of “artificial terror.” On the one hand, it could be described as nothing but images painted on glass, projected through a system of lenses onto screens, or perhaps onto smoke, installed in a theatre where the next day one might see jugglers or trained monkeys. On the other hand, it offered a horrifying glimpse into the hidden recesses of the supernatural. Wonders, indeed!

  It did not take long for the theatrical suspension of disbelief about the supernatural to become a vehicle for patriotism and imperialism. In 1785, Loutherbourg designed a celestial “Apotheosis of Captain Cook” for the pantomime Omai. This popular piece centred on the true story of a Polynesian “prince” who had been brought to England by Cook's second expedition and who became London's favourite “noble savage.” Loutherbourg excelled himself in concocting stage effects for Tahitian sorcerers, ghosts and, best of all, a guardian spirit who appeared in a “blazing and liquid fire.” The climax of the play witnessed Captain Cook's elevation into heaven by Britannia, a spectacularly patriotic scene that may have been informed by conceptions of symbolic rebirth that Loutherbourg had assimilated from Freemasonry. The “martyred” captain was holding a sextant resembling a Masonic compass.61 In Loutherbourg's theatrical imagination, and perhaps in that of some members of his audience, Britannia had become a celestial figure, and her global imperial abode an earthly Temple of Solomon.

  Spiritual Persons: Behmenists and Swedenborgians

  Religion was a vital element in many of the cultural trends that gave rise to the occult revival. Late eighteenth-century England and Scotland were not secular societies, although many religious people were afraid that they were becoming so. As evidence of growing irreligion, the pious often referred to the horrendous argument of the Reverend Conyers Middleton that miracles had ceased with Christ's Apostles, or to the unholy views of David Hume, which denied any instance of the miraculous that could not be proven to violate the laws of nature.62 These were shockingly rationalist assertions that fed into widespread contemporary anxieties. The evangelical revival of the late eighteenth century, however, was sustained by more varied and complicated emotions than mere anxiety: it also sought to exalt individual spiritual experience. This allowed evangelicals to strike out in unexpected i
ntellectual directions. In some cases, they adopted occult ways of thinking that arose from the tradition of Jacob Boehme or the new teachings of the Swedish baron Emanuel Swedenborg.

  The evangelical awakening, of which Methodism was the most significant product, was made possible by a decline in the authority of mainstream Anglicanism. Under the broad toleration of the eighteenth century, religion became more than ever a voluntary activity, an individual choice based on personal commitment, rather than a social or state obligation.63 Religious fragmentation provided fertile ground for evangelical efforts, but also for occult speculation, which was sustained by the evangelical insistence on supernatural intervention. Methodists emphasized human perfectionism, a concept drawn from seventeenth-century mystical thought and favourable to occult interpretations, especially Behmenism. For his own part, John Wesley firmly insisted that the early Methodists “could never swallow … Jacob Behmen, although they often advised with one that did [i.e. William Law].”64 It would be a mistake, however, to consider Methodism, even in its initial phases, as a unified movement under Wesley's direction. In fact, as David Hempton has stressed, it was from the first “a religion of the people,” based on local communities of believers, who might follow diverse spiritual directions.65

  Wesley was himself accused of every manner of credulous belief. The bookseller James Lackington, an apostate from Methodism, vilified him as “a dupe and a rank enthusiast … [a] believer in dreams, visions, immediate revelations, miraculous cures, witchcraft, and many other ridiculous absurdities.”66 Lackington contemptuously compared Wesley's Primitive Physic, a collection of mostly harmless homeopathic remedies, with the rather disgusting cures used by the Franciscan monks of Uruguay, according to an account by the French occult writer the Abbé Antoine-Joseph Pernety. This was a multiple insult, implying that Wesley was as “superstitious” as a Catholic monk and as credulous as a notorious occultist.67 However it was intended, the accusation was overblown. Wesley believed in many supernatural things, but he was not gullible, and he usually demanded evidence for wondrous claims.