The Tarot in England

It is now fairly well established that Tarot cards were first created as a game in the courts of Renaissance Italy and it was not until early 19^th century France that they began to be invoked for use in fortune-telling and ritual magic. From here this idea spread, via the writings of Eliphas Levi, to Britain and was soon adopted and elaborated by occultists there. The pack that was most often found in England in this period was the Marseilles Tarot, imported from France and sold by esoteric booksellers.

Some late Victorian magicians and writers tried their hand at creating their own version of the Tarot, as described by Ronald Decker and Michael Dummett in their A History of the Occult Tarot (2019). Kenneth Mackenzie, whom they describe as an English disciple of Levi, had by 1879 ‘formed his intention of writing the book entitled The Game of Tarot: Archaeologically and Symbolically Considered’, and the prospectus for this said it would include a set of 78 illustrations in a case: as they note, ‘a complete Tarot pack, in other words’. But neither book nor deck ever appeared.

In 1886, Arthur Machen’s close friend, the occult scholar A.E. Waite, published selected translations from Levi’s work as The Mysteries of Magic, with major sections on the Tarot, which Decker and Dummett regard as ‘the fountain-head of modern occultist theories of the Tarot’. Around this time, Frederick Holland, a kabbalist and alchemist, devised a Tarot for his own use, and in 1887 published a book on the subject, The Revelation of the Shechinah. At this time also Wynn Westcott, one of the founders of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, drew ink sketches of the Tarot trumps for his own use. His colleague in the magical order, S.L. MacGregor Mathers, coalesced all this activity and speculation in his The Tarot: Its Occult Signification, Use in Fortune-Telling and Method of Play (1888). From then onwards, the Tarot was inextricably linked with magic and prophecy.

Waite and Pamela Colman Smith then designed a new pack, the first finished and published English deck, issued by the occult imprint Rider (1909), and this has become the classic version in Britain. By the time of T S Eliot’s ‘The Waste Land’ (1922), with its celebrated allusion to Madame Sosostris and her ‘wicked pack of cards’, the use of the tarot for fortune-telling had clearly become well-known, at least in literary and artistic circles. Helen Simpson’s Tarot novel Cups Wands and Swords followed in 1927 and Charles Williams’ occult thriller The Greater Trumps in 1932.

Other occultists in England also developed Tarot designs: but Aleister Crowley’s Book of Thoth deck, illustrated by Lady Frieda Harris, was not published until much later; and a further possible pack (or at least some designs for one), begun by the esoteric author Bernard Bromage in the Fifties (as I describe in an essay in Sphinxes and Obelisks, 2021) was never issued, and is now presumed lost. In his memoir I Called It Magic (2011), Gareth Knight, like Bromage a follower of Dion Fortune, recalls how hard it was to find Tarot packs in England in the post-war period and his own plans to produce one in the early Sixties. There are now many versions and variants, including what are known more generally as ‘oracle cards’.

However, there was almost certainly no historical basis for some Victorian (and modern) occultists to claim that the Tarot had Ancient Egyptian or even Babylonian origins, except in a very wide sense that certain symbols (such as the sun, moon and stars) are common to almost all early faiths. As Decker and Dummett assert (pg 177), ‘The idea persists that Tarot cards originated in ancient Egypt. No facts support this theory, while many refute it, as we have emphasised.’ That idea took hold because ancient lineage was important to these circles, since it was seen to confer authority.

Is all this esoteric work, in which a card game has become a potent magical tool, founded then upon a misconception? Well, not quite. We should note two points that make the original meaning and use of the Tarot not quite so clear-cut as all that. The first is that any hard distinction between games and magic is a modern attitude. As Nigel Pennick has described in his book The Games of the Gods: The Origin of Board Games in Magic and Divination (1989), these activities were often intertwined. Players and seers in pre-modern times did not assume that games, including cards, could only be used for one thing or indeed that they could not be deployed for different purposes simultaneously: a game might also be a ritual. Chess, for example, has sometimes been thought of in this way, an idea I explore in my story ‘A Chess Game at Michaelmas’ (Lost Estates, 2024). (My own Tarot story is ‘The Uncertainty of All Earthly Things’ about a Sancreed Tarot).

Secondly, the imagery on the cards may have been enjoyed by patrons principally for artistic or aesthetic reasons, but it clearly draws on mystical, metaphysical and magical symbols. And, again, past ages did not necessarily draw any sharp distinction between art and magic. So we should keep in view that the Tarot cards come out of a cultural milieu in which they may always have been seen as having some magical resonances, even if they were not made primarily for ritual or divinatory purposes.

Moreover, in the later 20^th century and after, while this hankering for ancient, traditional authority continues in some esoteric streams, a distinct approach has developed which essentially shrugs and says: ‘who cares? If it works for you, use it.’ Perhaps influenced by surrealism, psychogeography and the d-i-y ethic of punk, lineage is no longer seen as essential. More valued is a practice that is informal, improvisatory, contingent, syncretic, and which does not separate the arcane from the mundane. Cast a spell, then do the washing-up sort of thing, or, even better, make the washing-up the spell.

Everyday life becomes its own magical practice, alert to meaning. A modern magician might use dice and cards, joss sticks and amulets, but they will also look out for apparent coincidences, for signs on walls, for scraps of paper in the street, for chance finds in bookshops and curio shops, for unexpected encounters with strangers. They are drawn by the suspicion that all life is magic and we should keep the keenest possible open-ness to its possibilities, content only to pick up a few clues and glimpses.

If this sort of approach has any need of a prophet (or role model), it is surely Arthur Machen’s Mr Dyson, that inspired idler and connoisseur of the curious, that wanderer among the backwaters and byways of London, that champion of an ingenious improbability theory always on the look-out for signs and coincidences. Ever delighted to find in my own town roamings the chapels and tabernacles of obscure sects, such as the Sandemanians, the Countess of Huntingdon’s Connexion, the Church of the New Jerusalem, the Ancient Church of Albion (in crumbling red brick), I sometimes wonder whether one autumn day I might see the bronze and golden leaves leap around a faded and peeling painted notice-board for the Original Atlantis and Baghdad Temple of the Dysonites (est.1895).

(Mark Valentine)

Chris Massie, The Author of 'Corridor of Mirrors'

In my note on ‘Trying to Find a Corridor of Mirrors’, I explained that both the author, Chris Massie, and his book, were unusually elusive. Readers kindly contributed thoughts and information about these, and I have followed up the suggestion by one reader, Gali-Dana, of looking at his book The Confessions of a Vagabond (1931).

Wandering and hiking books were popular in the Thirties, but this is not a chronicle of agreeable amblings in the byways of Britain. It is instead a record of the poverty and hardship of Massie’s early days, especially as a struggling writer. This book itself is quite uncommon, so it may be worth recording what it tells us about Massie.

It begins: ‘It was after the war and I was a partially disabled ex-service man, destitute in London’. He had been a hospital orderly in France during the retreat of March 1918, at one point with sixty badly-injured patients under his care and very little he could do to help them. He was himself wounded and concussed during the war.

He confirms that his first books were accounts of serving with the Royal Army Medical Corps, Reflections from France (1916) and Red or Khaki, or Impressions of a Stretcher-Bearer (Manchester: Blackfriars Press, 1918), adding ‘Much of my work was done there in the evening by the light of two sputtering candles in a dug-out.’ He is forthright about the futility of the war and the brutal discipline meted out to independent-minded soldiers like himself by their own side, in his case resulting in lasting injuries.

In his Confessions, Massie explains that he was born ‘in needy circumstances’ and had to leave school at 14 to start work. He was already absorbed by books, and would have liked to educate himself further, but his family needed the money. He was apprenticed to a goldsmith: not an opulent job, as it may sound, but hard work ‘from dawn to dark’. The work, he said, ‘filled me with cynical contempt. We were turning out luxury goods for the idle rich’.

He lists many other jobs he did for a while: ‘I have been a soldier, a tramp, a goldsmith, a sign-writer, and a costermonger. I have been a carpenter’s mate, a clerk at a Labour Exchange, a bottle washer at a beer bottling factory, and a dramatic critic. I have written books, reviewed books, been a reporter, and addressed envelopes for a living.’ But what he really wanted to do was write. He did succeed in placing articles in Labour newspapers and periodicals and a miscellany of other places, but not enough to make a living.

In 1913 he sent an artfully composed begging letter to H.G. Wells asking for £3. Unfortunately, ‘it failed gloriously.’ Wells replied: ‘Dear Massie, I put your letter on one side to think it over, and I won’t do as you ask. You have a gift; you have genius. Your work in its way is as good as my work in my way; and why the devil I should have to do the finance business for you is more than I can understand.’ However, this was not Wells’ final word: he was in fact ‘most generous’. He also sent two of Massie’s stories to the prestigious English Review, who took them.

In 1922 he also had help from John Galsworthy, who sent him £15 so he could get married and write a bestseller he had in mind. Neither plan worked out: instead, he became a down-and-out, tramping the roads, spinning a yarn to strangers and seeking, but not always getting, alms. ‘I have written three novels in a workhouse’ he notes. They were his three earliest novels: Lady (1925), Peccavi (1929) and They Being Dead Yet Speak (1929). He gives a strong, unalloyed description of his workhouse days and the hopeless fates of his fellow inmates, though also with respect for their individual characters and peculiarities. He also gives account of others on the margins of society, beggars, match-sellers (‘timber merchants’ in the trade), hawkers, and some with sly and not quite legal routines.

Massie says at the end of his book that it is a confession of failure, but that his experiences have brought him into contact with the generosity and dignity of people living in the hardest of circumstances. He much prefers these to the sleeker sort in greater prosperity.

Soon after, Massie’s dedication to writing finally began to be recognised. He became a regularly-published novelist, with a new title every year or two: and, as we have seen, some of his novels were made into films. However, without doubt his upbringing and early vicissitudes and his own sense of failure made their mark: many of his books are about harried individuals in desperate circumstances.

(Mark Valentine)

Second-Hand Bookshops in Britain: 2024 Report

About ninety second-hand bookshops in the UK were reported as closed in 2024. This figure is based on reports to The Book Guide, usually by customers, occasionally by the bookdealers themselves or from their announcements. It compares to about 40 in 2023 and 60 in 2022.

I say 'reported as closed' in 2024 because some had in fact closed earlier. This year’s total includes quite a bit of 'catching up'. About thirty shops that had been listed on the guide but with few signs of activity have been checked up on during the year by doughty volunteer researchers, and in fact found to have gone some time ago. Thus, the higher total than recent years is partly the effect of better data. Probably, therefore, the truer total for the one year, discounting this backlog, is around 60. 

And they were not all full-scale bookshops as such: some, though they had a significant stock, were parts of antiques centres, or market stalls, etc. (see below for a note on what the Guide includes). Also, in a few cases, the shop or unit remained open, but changed its type of stock, for example by switching to new books.  

The reasons for closure included redevelopment of premises, the end of a lease, relocation, and retirement. As can be seen, most of these reasons are not directly due to a decline in trade.  The total also includes 15 charity bookshops. 

But those we have lost do include some long-established firms such as Arthur Probsthain of Great Russell Street, Bloomsbury, the veteran specialists in Orientalia; Broadhurst’s of Southport, Lancashire, which had been a haven of old-world courtesy; and Candle Lane Books of Shrewsbury, an archetypal story-book bookshop in an early 18^th century house, with four floors, two creaking staircases, rooms at odd angles and a dusty attic. It is a shame to see such venerable places vanish.

However, the overall figure is not quite so dismaying as it looks, because there have of course been openings (and discoveries) too. Indeed, these exceed the closures by some distance, at well over 100. It is true that most of these are charity or community bookshops, which are increasingly where second-hand books are to be found. However, there are some determined individual booksellers opening bookshops too.

Notable examples of this in 2024 include Second Page in Bristol, described by a visitor as an ‘Absolutely spiffing second hand bookshop - terrific stock, lovely sofa, and chatty, friendly staff. Highly recommended.’ There’s also Bodies in the Bookshop, Cambridge, for new and old crime fiction, ‘a must-visit destination for mystery lovers in Cambridge and beyond’ said one customer.

Oxford, meanwhile, offers Curio Books and Culture, an interesting example of the new trend for hybrid venues where books are part of a wider offering: ‘What becomes of those closed bank branches? Wine bars? Upscale estate agents?’ asks a reviewer, ‘Well, this one's now a centre for crafting, co-working, repair shops, a cafe, and—down in the vault—a bookshop. "Vault" sounds austere, but this is a welcoming space, lamplit and hushed (at least when I was there), with a carefully curated selection of books.’ There are other examples of such hybrids opening, such as a book café in Folkestone, Kent, and a shop in Frome, Somerset, which also offers collectable records and a badge museum.

It is true that if you are after a classic or nostalgic version of the second-hand bookshop, it is now harder to find, though by my estimate there are still over 300 of these. But if you just want to browse a good stock of second-hand books, and are not devoted to a particular atmosphere or experience, there are more second-hand bookshops now than there were for most of the 20^th century. On the best available evidence, there were 523 in 1955 (and fewer before), 625 in 1966, 942 in 1984: and there are over 1,000 now. The big change is that many more are now charity or community run, and the second noticeable change is towards hybrid shops like those illustrated above.  

A typical, reasonably prosperous town now might have permutations from four or five significant second-hand book sources: a privately-owned, well-established bookshop, a full-scale bookshop run by a national charity, an antiques centre with several book rooms or units, a community bookshop for the local hospice or other good causes, and a café, arts centre or other louche boho hang-out with a curated book section. Variations on this sort of list abound. Some towns, of course, will have none of these.

Indeed, these changes bring their own stimulus and satisfactions. Readers and collectors must now use even more persistence and ingenuity, because second-hand books are to be found lurking in a much wider range of places than ever before, some offbeat, unlikely and obscure. In my own part of the world, for example, there are stocks of several hundreds and more at the back of a rural church, upstairs in a craft gallery, in a supermarket foyer, in a community hub, and at least twice a month in a village hall flea market (with some particularly unusual finds). The thrill of the quest is still there.

(Mark Valentine)

A Note on Definitions.  The Book Guide lists: ‘Any business with a significant stock of secondhand or collectable books, that welcomes visitors at advertised times or by prior appointment. This includes permanent units in antique markets, private bookrooms and weekly market stalls. Stock can be small if good or specialised, but books should be the only or main holdings. Thus, a charity bookshop should be included, but a general charity shop should not, unless it has a room's-worth of books.’

Image: Seven Roads Gallery of Book Trade Labels