This edited article about alchemy originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 700 published on 14 June 1975.

The Neapolitan Count Caetano dazzled Frederick I of Prussia with his alchemical fireworks which appeared to produce gold

Of all the non-events of the Middle Ages, none was so nonsensical as the practice of alchemy. At a time when simple, illiterate craftsmen were creating the astounding glory of medieval cathedrals, their so-called betters were wasting time trying to change base metals (or anything else that came to hand) into silver and, particularly, gold.

However, we can hardly blame our ancestors, as the “art” of alchemy dates back to the ancient Egyptians, and the great Greek philosopher Aristotle had not helped matters by pronouncing that everything was made up of earth, water, air and fire. Change the mixture of these in a metal, alchemists believed, and another metal could be made, even gold. The mythical substance they sought was the Philosopher’s Stone, and it was not merely gold that would spring from it. Optimists believed that the way would be wide open to curing all illnesses and, best of all, to discover the secret of eternal life.

The first person to challenge all the nonsense publicly was an unlikeable but able Swiss doctor called Paracelcus, an alchemist himself, who, early in the 16th century, publicly burnt earlier “learned” writings and told his fellow gold-seekers to get on with the more important job of improving medicine.

There is a happy ending to this silly story, for along the way a lot of useful knowledge had been gathered incidentally by the alchemists, who were accidentally the fathers of modern chemistry. Using simple trial and error, they learnt much about metals, helped improve ways of smelting iron, found new alloys, which helped bell-founders, clockmakers and others, and the makers of cannon and machinery used in corn mills.

Even alchemist-doctors sometimes found a good remedy, and it is true to say that the borderline between medieval alchemy, chemistry and medicine is hard to define. Which does not alter the fact that alchemy itself was a load of ancient and medieval, British and foreign, rubbish.

This edited article about Mother Shipton originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 682 published on 8 February 1975.

As a child when Mother Shipton was insulted at school she flung her detractors up in the air by means of an invisible force

When insulted by her school-friends, young Ursula Southill was said to demonstrate her anger by tossing them up into the air by means of an invisible force. Later in life she became famous for her uncanny powers of fortune-telling and amazed people with the accuracy of her predictions.

Three hundred and fifty years before the invention of radio, a little old lady in the town of Knaresborough in Yorkshire had forecast that “Around the world thoughts will fly in the twinkling of an eye.” She also predicted the age of the motor car: “Carriages without horses will go, And accidents fill the world with woe.”

Some of the predictions of this amazing lady, who was known as Mother Shipton, are quite remarkable.

She is said to have foretold, among other things, the invention of iron ships, submarines, aeroplanes, and the coming of the two world wars. And yet, in spite of the fact that her sayings are well-known, details about the woman herself and of her life in Knaresborough are extremely scanty. Some people doubt that she ever existed.

It is said that she was born Ursula Southill, Southiel or Sonthiel in July 1488 and that she died in 1561. Her mother, Agatha Southill, was reputed to be a witch and her father was the Devil.

Ursula was the ugliest child that anyone had ever seen. When her schoolfriends teased her about this, she is supposed to have been able to toss them into the air by an invisible force. When she was 24 years of age she married Tobias Shipton, a builder, and as Mother Shipton she became famous all over the country for the accuracy of her fortune-telling. People came from far and wide to seek her knowledge and advice.

It was not until eighty years after her death, however, that her powers of prediction became really well-known. In 1641 a pamphlet, “The Prophecie of Mother Shipton in the Raigne of King Henry VIII”, was published anonymously in London and purported to be a record of her predictions, most of which had by that time already been fulfilled. Four years later W. Lilly, an astrologer, quoted some of her forecasts in his “Collection of Ancient and Moderne Prophesies” and stated that sixteen of them had come true. In 1667 Richard Head, a writer of dubious veracity, published “The Life and Death of Mother Shipton”. From then on the legend just grew and grew, each subsequent writer adding a little more to the story, and so did the number of predictions that she was supposed to have made!

This edited article about magic originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 681 published on 1 February 1975.

There was a riot at the New Theatre after an elaborate hoax, by C L Doughty

People read the advertisement in the London newspapers with a certain amount of disbelief but resolved to attend the theatre for what promised to be the show of a lifetime. The notice in the paper on that day in January, 1749 promised that “At the New Theatre in the Haymarket on Monday next, the 16th inst., to be seen a person who performs the several most surprising things following: Namely, first he takes a common walking cane from any of the spectators and thereupon plays the music of every instrument now in use, and likewise sings to surprising perfection.

“Secondly, he presents you with a common wine bottle, which any of the spectators may first examine. This bottle is placed on a table in the middle of the stage, and he (without equivocation) goes into it in sight of all the spectators and sings in it. During his stay in the bottle any person may handle it and see plainly that it does not exceed a common tavern bottle.”

Flamboyant advertising and bombastic claims were the stock in trade of the 18th century conjurer and one had to read between the lines to get at the truth. But, imagine! A man who could actually climb into an ordinary wine bottle! It was obviously a sight not to be missed. And when the people heard that this amazing man had performed his fantastic feats before the crowned heads of Africa, Asia, and Europe they immediately decided that they, too must witness this unique spectacle for themselves.

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This edited article about pantomime originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 676 published on 28 December 1974.

‘Dick Whittington’  is a popular pantomime, by Richard Hook

What makes a good pantomime? Catchy songs? Spectacular scenery? Certainly knock-about comedy, and at least the outline of some well-known fairy story, of which “Cinderella” is the outright favourite. Though it is essentially a Christmas entertainment, pantomime also has more to do with the old fashioned summer pierrot show at a seaside resort, than the “pier” on which it is acted.

For pantomime has a long history, and many learned books have been written about it. At different times “pantomime” has meant very different kinds of entertainment, some of which bear practically no resemblance to a modern performance of that name. Yet nearly all of them have contributed something to the entertainment which, even today, fills our theatres as nothing else can.

“Pantomime” is really a pair of old Greek words meaning “Let’s all pretend”. It began as a kind of play without words, in which masks were used to represent different people and their moods. Many modern pantomimes make great use of disguises in their stories – giants, fairy godmothers, witches and wolves, for example. Cinderella is full of them, just like those Greek “pantomimes” of 2000 years ago.

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This edited article about superstition originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 657 published on 17 August 1974.

A fierce fanged black cat was used by the US Tanks Corps in its recruitment poster of 1917 by August William Hurat

A fat black cat slumbering on the hearth-rug looks harmless enough but many people view cats with a mixture of dread and awe. In the past, a whole host of superstitions have sprung up around the cat family.

Probably the lucky black cat dates from the days of ancient Egypt. There it was sacred. Killing a cat, even accidentally, was punishable by death. The ordinary Egyptian cat was sandy, with tabby markings, or barred, so a black cat was rare, and consequently regarded with awe. Illustrations often show cats with human bodies. Their mummified remains have been found in many tombs, embalmed, just like the Pharaohs.

In the north of England, to own a black cat has always been thought lucky, but to meet a strange one, which could, perhaps, be in league with a witch, was thought to be unlucky indeed. If possible, the owned cat should be self-invited; a bought cat, it is said, is no good for catching mice.

Yorkshire sailors’ wives believed that to possess a black cat would ensure their sea-going husbands’ safety.

In Ireland it was unlucky to take the cat with you when moving house. This belief may be based on the fact that cats tend to attach themselves to places, rather than to people; and frequently return to a former home if forcibly removed from it.

In India, it is considered unlucky to hear a cat mew when you are starting a journey. You must return and find out what it wants. Until it is satisfied, you will have no luck on the journey.

More general beliefs about a cat’s behaviour are that it is lucky if one sits in front of you, or walks ahead in your path. But if it runs away, turns back, or walks round you . . . or if it crosses your path, (particularly from left to right), disaster will certainly follow.

Most grisly of all cat superstitions concerns its connection with witches and witchcraft . . . the most powerful weapon for spells, it was said, is the skull of a black cat, fed on human flesh.

This edited article about English literature originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 626 published on 12 January 1974.

J R R Tolkien with characters from The Lord of the Rings

Professor Tolkien sighed, pushed back his chair from his desk, and reached for his pipe. At last the third and final volume of The Lord of the Rings was finished. Or at least as finished as Tolkien could ever feel it would be, for he hated this moment when his writing finally left his desk and went off to the publishers to be printed.

Usually he wrote and re-wrote his books many times, always feeling that there was something more he could do to improve them. But now his publishers, who had been demanding that he complete the book for weeks, had finally insisted that he send it to them.

It is hardly surprising that John Tolkien was such a perfectionist about his writing, however, for he was a very distinguished man. At the time when The Lord of the Rings was published he was Merton Professor of English Language and Literature at Oxford University.

He was born in South Africa in 1892, and came to England with his mother four years later, when his father died. The family settled in Worcestershire in an area which is now a suburb of Birmingham but was then, in 1896, open country. Here John quickly developed a deep love of nature, while his imaginative mind devoured all the legends of King Arthur, and the fairy tales of George MacDonald, Andrew Lang, and many others.

As a small boy he did not go to school but was taught at home by his mother, and it was she who first stirred in him the interest in ancient languages which influenced the whole course of his life. She turned out to be a fine teacher, too, for in 1903, John won a scholarship to King Edward’s School in Birmingham.

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This edited article about children’s literature originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 625 published on 5 January 1974.

George Macdonald once walked down London’s Regent Street in full Highland Dress quite unaware of the stir he was causing among the passers-by

The night was dark and stormy and the waves crashed on to the shore as George MacDonald strode near the water, revelling in the noise and smell of the North Sea and the wild winter wind. He knew he should not be out on such a night, for his health was not good, but he found storms so exhilarating that it had been impossible for him to resist this one any longer:

It was 1843, and George, aged 19, was a student at King’s College, Aberdeen. He was a sensitive and romantic young man and loved to wander by the sea, reciting poetry to himself. Such amusement had the added advantage of being free, and for George, who was so poor that he sometimes used thick slices of raw carrot instead of buttons on his waistcoat, that was very important!

Having no money was nothing new for George MacDonald. He was born in 1824 and his childhood in the Scottish highland town of Huntly had been very simple. As very few people in the neighbourhood were any better off at that time, their own poverty did not greatly disturb the six MacDonald boys. As long as George and his five brothers could roam freely over the wild countryside they never minded their shabby clothes.

The saddest part of George’s childhood was that his mother died when he was only 8 years old, and although his father was very kind and generous, George never got over the loss of his mother at so early an age.

After he had gained his Master of Arts degree at Aberdeen, George took a job cataloguing the books in the library of one of the huge northern castles. He had always hoped to be able to study medicine, but he was not strong enough to work and earn money to pay for the course. Without such an income the expense of going to Germany, the best place for medical studies in those days, was far beyond his means.

Yet the summer George spent in the castle library had many compensations. For the first time in his life he was able to browse through a great selection of books, both in English and other languages. Of these the ones he liked best were the novels and poetry of the romantic writers, published in England and in Germany at the beginning of the 19th century.

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This edited article about children’s literature originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 624 published on 29 December 1973.

The Brothers Grimm with some characters from their fairy tales

Jacob Grimm was sitting gloomily by the camp fire, deep in thought. It was January, 1814 and the snow lay thick all around. The glaring whiteness hurt his eyes for he was more used to the dim light of libraries than to this startling brightness.

Jacob was then 29 years old and working as a secretary for the Allied Army, which was engaged in a lengthy campaign against Napoleon, Emperor of France. War had been going on in Europe for many years, and now, at last, there was hope of defeating Napoleon after the disastrous failure of his invasion of Russia.

But Jacob was no soldier and his only consolation at being so far from home was that the army sometimes brought him near to the libraries in the great cities of Europe, and here he could continue his research. So most of the time he remained aloof from the soldiers, thinking about his work and dreaming of his home in Cassel, a small town in the German state of Westphalia.

Jacob was born in 1785, in the medieval town of Hanau, near Frankfurt, and his brother Wilhelm barely a year later in 1786. The two boys, being so close in age, had been inseparable, going to the same schools and later to the University of Marburg together.

Their childhood was extremely happy and all through their lives they loved to recall memories of those times. Their father was a well-respected town official, and the family lived in a fine old house, where there were always chickens in the courtyard and plenty of good country food in the kitchen. Life in Hanau had hardly changed for hundreds of years and both boys loved the traditional customs and the ancient buildings in the town.

By the time Jacob and Wilhelm, the two eldest boys, came to leave university, things had changed considerably, for their father had died unexpectedly and the family had been forced to leave their large house to find a cheaper home. Both brothers knew that what they most wanted to do was to continue their research on medieval manuscripts, an interest they had discovered at Marburg. But it was essential that they found jobs in order to help support their mother and four younger brothers and sisters, so they decided to look for jobs which would allow them plenty of free time to continue their studies at home.

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This edited article about children’s literature originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 622 published on 15 December 1973.

One night after poring over a book of magic, Lang tried to conjure up the devil with an ancient spell

The comfortable club room was filled with a subdued hum of conversation. All the voices were men’s for this was a gentleman’s club, the Savile, in Victorian London. The year was 1889, and, amongst the club members present were several distinguished 19th-century writers. Rudyard Kipling was there, for instance, and Rider Haggard and Thomas Hardy. Sitting slightly apart from the others, was a tall aloof-looking man named Andrew Lang.

Lang was forty-five years old and a well-known writer and journalist as well as a much-respected scholar. Yet, despite his success, he was shy, and to those who did not know him well he seemed indifferent and sometimes almost rude because of his blunt Scottish honesty. But Kipling and Rider Haggard, who were amongst his good friends, knew that Lang was very soft-hearted and that when he seemed most withdrawn was when he was most likely to be devising some scheme for helping those around him.

1889 was also the year of the publication of Lang’s first collection of fairy tales, The Blue Fairy Book. He had put an enormous amount of himself into the gathering together of these tales for, ever since early childhood, he had been fascinated by tales of magic.

Selkirk, where Andrew was born in 1844, and the surrounding southern Scottish countryside was well known for its traditional fairy lore, and many of the local people still believed in magic. Being an imaginative boy, Andrew was very influenced by this, and, in particular, by Nancy, his nurse, who was always eager to tell him tales of supernatural doings.

As a boy Andrew was rather solitary, always reading and often day-dreaming. He loved above all to roam the countryside or to go fishing, and it was then that he absorbed the mysterious atmosphere of the silent landscape where such magic doings were believed to happen.

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This edited article about water divining originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 607 published on 1 September 1973.

Some 35 years ago an old French agricultural worker was seen scurrying for dear life along a road near Moulins. It was a zig-zagging course he ran, for every few moments he glanced over his shoulder in case his employer, a certain Monsieur Treyve, was in pursuit.

“Sorcerer! Sorcerer!” screamed the old man over his shoulder.

Thankful that such an accusation had not been made centuries ago, when he might have been burned at the stake, Monsieur Treyve sighed, scratched his head and then had to smile. What else could he do after proving his extremely unusual powers yet again?

A short time earlier Monsieur Treyve had told his employee that he had left work without permission, visited a cafe in the village, enjoyed a drink there and chatted for a while with two old friends.

All this was perfectly true, as the man admitted, resentful that he had been followed.

And so he had been – but by a tiny pendulum dangling on a length of string!

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