In the olden time, almanacs were exclusively the work of judicial astrologers. The calendar, in addition to the registration of remarkable events, and times, and tides, and predictions, in relation to the weather, presumed to foretell the affairs of mankind, and the prospective changes, in the condition of the world; not by any processes of reasoning, but by a careful contemplation of the heavenly bodies.

On most occasions, these predictions were sufficiently vague, for the soothsayer’s security; quite as much so, as our more modern foreshadowings, in relation to the weather, whose admonitions, to expect a change, about these times, are frequently extended from the beginning to the end of the calendar month. An example of this wariness appears, in a letter of John of Salisbury, written in 1170. “The astrologers,” says he, “call this year the wonderful year, from the singular situation of the planets and constellations; and say, that, in the course of it, the councils of kings will be changed, wars will be frequent, and the world will be troubled with seditions; that learned men will be discouraged; but, towards the end of the year, they will be exalted.”

Emboldened, by the almost universal deference, paid to their predictions, the astrologers soon began to venture, on a measure of precision, which was somewhat hazardous.

In the commencement of the year 1186, the most distinguished judicial astrologers, not only in England, but upon the continent, proclaimed, that there existed an unprecedented conjunction of the planets, in the sign Libra. Hence they predicted, that, on Tuesday, the sixteenth day of September, at three o’clock in the morning, a storm would arise, such as the world had never known before. They asserted, with an amazing confidence, that, not only individual structures would be destroyed, by this terrible storm, but that great cities would be swept away, before its fury. This tempest, according to their predictions, would be followed, by a far spreading pestilence, and by wars of unexampled severity. A particular account of these remarkable predictions may be found, on page 356 of the annals of Roger de Hoveden.

No more conclusive evidence is necessary of the implicit, and universal confidence, which then prevailed, in the teachings of judicial astrology, than the wide spread dismay and consternation, produced by these bold and positive predictions. It is not possible to calculate the sum of human misery, inflicted upon society, by the terrible anticipations of these coming events. As the fatal day drew near, extraordinary preparations were everywhere made, to secure property, from the devastating effects of the approaching tempest. Baldwin, Archbishop of Canterbury, commanded a solemn fast of three days’ continuance, throughout his precinct. On the night of the fifteenth of September, very many persons sat up, in solemn expectation of the coming tempest.

It has been cruelly observed of medical men, that, to some of their number, the death of a patient would, on the whole, be rather more agreeable, than that he should falsify their prediction, by the recovery of his health. How powerfully a sentiment, similar to this, must have exercised the spirits of these astrologers, as the appointed hour drew nigh! It came at last—bright and cloudless—followed by a day of unusual serenity. The season was one of extraordinary mildness; the harvest and vintage were abundant; and the general health of the people was a subject of universal observation. Old Gervase, of Tilbury, in his Chronicles, alluding to the Archbishop’s fears and fastings, remarks, that there were no storms, during the whole year, other than such, as the Archbishop himself raised in the church, by his own absurdity and violence.

The astrologers hung their heads, for very shame, and lost caste, for a time, with the people.

Divination was, of old, emphatically, a royal folly; and kings have been its dupes and votaries, from the earliest ages of the world. The secret manner, in which Saul betook himself to the witch of Endor, arose, partly, from his knowledge, that such orgies were a violation of divine and human laws. The evils, resulting from such absurdities, had become so apparent, that Saul, himself, had already banished all the soothsayers and magicians from his kingdom. It is manifest, from the experience of Saul, that it is unwise to consult a witch, upon an empty stomach—“Then Saul fell straightway all along on the earth, and was sore afraid, because of the words of Samuel: and there was no strength in him; for he had eaten no bread all the day, nor all the night.”

Lucan, lib. vi. v. 570, et seq., represents young Pompey, just before the battle of Pharsalia, as paying a nocturnal visit, to a sorceress of Thessaly, of whom he inquires, in relation to the issue of the combat. With the ordinary preliminaries, charms, and incantations, the necromancer conjures up the ghost of a soldier, who had recently fallen in battle. At length, she pronounces a denunciation, between which and the prediction of the witch of Endor, delivered to Saul, the resemblance is certainly remarkable.

The laws of France, in the time of Louis XIV., were extremely rigorous, against sorcery and divination, inflicting the severest penalties, upon all, who pretended to exercise their skill, in these worse than unprofitable mysteries. Nevertheless, an extraordinary story is related, in the autobiography of Madame Du Barri, as communicated to her, by Louis XV., of several visits stealthily paid, by Louis XIV., and Madame de Maintenon, to a celebrated judicial astrologer, in Paris. This narrative may be found recorded, at length, in the first volume of Madame Du Barri’s Memoirs, commencing on page 286.

The age of Louis XIV. was an age of superstition. An Italian priest, a secret professor of the art of necromancy, was induced, upon the King’s promise of protection, against the parliament, in the event of a discovery, to satisfy the royal curiosity, and open the book of fate. At the hour appointed, being midnight, Madame de Maintenon and the Duc de Noailles were conveyed to a house in SevrÈs, where they met the sorcerer, who had celebrated the mass alone, and consecrated several wafers. After performing a variety of ceremonies, he drew the horoscope of the King, and Madame de Maintenon. He promised the King, that he should succeed, in all his undertakings. He then gave his Majesty a parcel, wrapped in new parchment, and carefully sealed, saying to the King—“the day, in which you form the fatal resolution of acquainting yourself with the contents of this package, will be the last of your prosperity; but, if you desire to carry your good fortune to the highest pitch, be careful, upon every great festival, Easter, Whitsunday, the Assumption, and Christmas, to pierce this talisman with a pin; do this, and be happy.”

Certain events confirmed the sorcerer’s predictions—others gave them the lie direct. The royal confidence was shaken.

Upon one occasion, the Bishop of Meaux, the great Bossuet, chanced to be at the apartments of Madame de Maintenon; and the subject of magic and sorcery being introduced, the good Bishop expressed himself, with such abhorrence of the profanation, as effectually to stir up a sentiment of compunction, in the bosom of the King and Madame. At length, they disclosed the secret to their confessors, to whom the most effectual means of breaking the charm appeared to be, to break open the talismanic package; and this was accordingly imposed, as a penance, on the King.

His sacred Majesty was thus painfully placed, inter cornua, or, as we trivially say, between hawk and buzzard—between the priest and the sorcerer. His good sense, if not his devotion, prevailed. The package was torn open, in the presence of Madame de Maintenon, and father la Chaise. It contained a consecrated wafer, pierced with as many holes, as there had been saints’ days in the calendar, since it had been in the King’s possession. That consternation fell upon the King, which becomes a good Catholic, when he believes, that he has committed sacrilege. He was long disordered, by the recollection, and all, that masses and starvation could avail, to purge the offence, was cheerfully submitted to, by the King. Louis XV. closes this farcical account, with a grave averment, that his ancestor, after this, lost as many male descendants, in the right line, as he had stuck pins, in the holy wafer. There may, possibly, be some little consolation, in the reflection, that, if the private history of Louis le Grand be entitled to any credit, like Charles the Second of England, he could well afford the sacrifice—of whom Butler pleasantly remarks—

“Go on, brave Charles, and if thy back,
As well as purse, but hold thee tack,
Most of thy realm, in time, the rather
Than call thee king, shall call thee father.”

The Millennarians of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries—and these enthusiasts are, by no means, of modern origin—may be said to have hunted, in company with the judicial astrologers. Herlicius and the Millennarians solemnly predicted the destruction of the Turkish Empire, in 1665, the one relying upon the aspect of the stars, and the other upon their fantastical interpretation of the Scriptures; and both, in all likelihood, chiefly, upon the good sword and stubborn will of the Emperor; who, to their infinite disappointment and mortification, finally made peace with the Ottomans. Yet David Herlicius was no impostor, or if so, there was no greater dupe to his astrological doctrines than himself. He was a learned, pious, and honest man.

There is, probably, no more extensively popular error, than that a deceiver must possess, on all occasions, a greater measure of knowledge than the deceived. Herlicius was an eminent physician; and Bayle says of him, vol. vi. page 137—“One can hardly imagine why a man, who had so much business, in the practice of physic, and who never had any children, should fear to want bread in his old age, unless he drew horoscopes.”This eminent man had doubtless some little misgivings, as to the infallibility of the art, after the failure of his prediction, in relation to the Ottomans. Bayle recites an extract of a letter, from Herlicius to a friend, in which the writer says: “Oh that fortune would look kindly upon me! that, without meddling with those astrological trifles, I might make provision for old age, which threatens me with blindness; and I would never draw any horoscope. In the mean time, when a great many persons inquire for, and desire to know more things, than are within the compass of our art, or more than it can explain, I choose rather to act with conscience, than to disgrace, and, as it were, to defile, our sacred Astrology, and to cast a blemish upon it. For our art abounds with a great number of Chaldean superstitions, which several of our countrymen are still obstinately fond of. A great many ask me what color of clothes and horses will be lucky for them? Sometimes I laugh heartily, at these and other such absurd questions, but I do also often abhor them. For I am enamored with the virgin state of our art, nor can I suffer that it should be so abominably defiled, as to give the enemies of astrology an opportunity to object to us those abuses, to the contempt of the art itself.”

At the period, when Herlicius unfortunately predicted the destruction of the Ottoman power, Judicial Astrology was in the highest favor in England. The date of the prediction, 1665, was the sixth year of Charles the Second. Whatever space remained, unoccupied by other follies, during the reign of the Stuarts, and even during the interregnum, was filled by the preposterous doctrines of Judicial Astrology. It is perfectly well established, that Charles the First, when meditating his escape from Carisbrook castle, in 1647, consulted the famous astrologer, Sir William Lilly.