Yorkshire.
4
The Friends of English Magic
Early spring 1807
Consider, if you will, a man who sits in his library day after day; a small man of no particular personal attractions. His book is on the table before him. A fresh supply of pens, a knife to cut new nibs, ink, paper, notebooks — all is conveniently to hand. There is always a fire in the room — he cannot do without a fire, he feels the cold. The room changes with the season: he does not. Three tall windows open on a view of English countryside which is tranquil in spring, cheerful in summer, melancholy in autumn and gloomy in winter — just as English landscape should be. But the changing seasons excite no interest in him — he scarcely raises his eyes from the pages of his book. He takes his exercise as all gentlemen do; in dry weather his long walk crosses the park and skirts a little wood; in wet weather there is his short walk in the shrubbery. But he knows very little of shrubbery or park or wood. There is a book waiting for him upon the library table; his eyes fancy they still follow its lines of type, his head still runs upon its argument, his fingers itch to take it up again. He meets his neighbours twice or thrice a quarter — for this is England where a man’s neighbours will never suffer him to live entirely bereft of society, let him be as dry and sour-faced as he may. They pay him visits, leave their cards with his servants, invite him to dine or to dance at assembly-balls. Their intentions are largely charitable — they have a notion that it is bad for a man to be always alone — but they also have some curiosity to discover whether he has changed at all since they last saw him. He has not. He has nothing to say to them and is considered the dullest man in Yorkshire.
Yet within Mr Norrell’s dry little heart there was as lively an ambition to bring back magic to England as would have satisfied even Mr Honeyfoot, and it was with the intention of bringing that ambition to a long-postponed fulfillment that Mr Norrell now proposed to go to London.
Childermass assured him that the time was propitious and Childermass knew the world. Childermass knew what games the children on street-corners are playing — games that all other grown-ups have long since forgotten. Childermass knew what old people by firesides are thinking of, though no one has asked them in years. Childermass knew what young men hear in the rattling of the drums and the tooting of the pipes that makes them leave their homes and go to be soldiers — and he knew the half-eggcupful of glory and the barrelful of misery that await them. Childermass could look at a smart attorney in the street and tell you what he had in his coat-tail pockets. And all that Childermass knew made him smile; and some of what he knew made him laugh out loud; and none of what he knew wrung from him so much as ha’pennyworth of pity.
So when Childermass told his master, “Go to London. Go now,” Mr Norrell believed him.
“The only thing I do not quite like,” said Mr Norrell, “is your plan to have Segundus write to one of the London newspapers upon our behalf. He is certain to make errors in what he writes — have you thought of that? I dare say he will try his hand at interpretation. These third-rate scholars can never resist putting in something of themselves. He will make guesses — wrong guesses — at the sorts of magic I employed at York. Surely there is enough confusion surrounding magic without our adding to it. Must we make use of Segundus?”
Childermass bent his dark gaze upon his master and his even darker smile, and replied that he believed they must. “I wonder, sir,” he said, “if you have lately heard of a naval gentleman of the name of Baines?”
“I believe I know the man you mean,” said Mr Norrell.
“Ah!” said Childermass. “And how did you come to hear of him?”
A short silence.
“Well then,” said Mr Norrell reluctantly, “I suppose that I have seen
4
The Friends of English Magic
Early spring 1807
Consider, if you will, a man who sits in his library day after day; a small man of no particular personal attractions. His book is on the table before him. A fresh supply of pens, a knife to cut new nibs, ink, paper, notebooks — all is conveniently to hand. There is always a fire in the room — he cannot do without a fire, he feels the cold. The room changes with the season: he does not. Three tall windows open on a view of English countryside which is tranquil in spring, cheerful in summer, melancholy in autumn and gloomy in winter — just as English landscape should be. But the changing seasons excite no interest in him — he scarcely raises his eyes from the pages of his book. He takes his exercise as all gentlemen do; in dry weather his long walk crosses the park and skirts a little wood; in wet weather there is his short walk in the shrubbery. But he knows very little of shrubbery or park or wood. There is a book waiting for him upon the library table; his eyes fancy they still follow its lines of type, his head still runs upon its argument, his fingers itch to take it up again. He meets his neighbours twice or thrice a quarter — for this is England where a man’s neighbours will never suffer him to live entirely bereft of society, let him be as dry and sour-faced as he may. They pay him visits, leave their cards with his servants, invite him to dine or to dance at assembly-balls. Their intentions are largely charitable — they have a notion that it is bad for a man to be always alone — but they also have some curiosity to discover whether he has changed at all since they last saw him. He has not. He has nothing to say to them and is considered the dullest man in Yorkshire.
Yet within Mr Norrell’s dry little heart there was as lively an ambition to bring back magic to England as would have satisfied even Mr Honeyfoot, and it was with the intention of bringing that ambition to a long-postponed fulfillment that Mr Norrell now proposed to go to London.
Childermass assured him that the time was propitious and Childermass knew the world. Childermass knew what games the children on street-corners are playing — games that all other grown-ups have long since forgotten. Childermass knew what old people by firesides are thinking of, though no one has asked them in years. Childermass knew what young men hear in the rattling of the drums and the tooting of the pipes that makes them leave their homes and go to be soldiers — and he knew the half-eggcupful of glory and the barrelful of misery that await them. Childermass could look at a smart attorney in the street and tell you what he had in his coat-tail pockets. And all that Childermass knew made him smile; and some of what he knew made him laugh out loud; and none of what he knew wrung from him so much as ha’pennyworth of pity.
So when Childermass told his master, “Go to London. Go now,” Mr Norrell believed him.
“The only thing I do not quite like,” said Mr Norrell, “is your plan to have Segundus write to one of the London newspapers upon our behalf. He is certain to make errors in what he writes — have you thought of that? I dare say he will try his hand at interpretation. These third-rate scholars can never resist putting in something of themselves. He will make guesses — wrong guesses — at the sorts of magic I employed at York. Surely there is enough confusion surrounding magic without our adding to it. Must we make use of Segundus?”
Childermass bent his dark gaze upon his master and his even darker smile, and replied that he believed they must. “I wonder, sir,” he said, “if you have lately heard of a naval gentleman of the name of Baines?”
“I believe I know the man you mean,” said Mr Norrell.
“Ah!” said Childermass. “And how did you come to hear of him?”
A short silence.
“Well then,” said Mr Norrell reluctantly, “I suppose that I have seen
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