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Darnley

<h4>CHAPTER III.</h4> <div class="poem0"> Illusive dreams in mystic forms expressed.--Blackmore. </div> That which is out of the common course of nature, and for which we can see neither cause nor object, requires of course a much greater body of evidence to render it historically credible than is necessary to authenticate any event within the ordinary operation of visible agents. Were it not so, the many extraordinary tales respecting the astrologers, and even the magicians of the middle ages, would now rest as recorded truth, instead of idle fiction, being supported by much more witness than we have to prove many received facts of greater importance. Till the last century, the existence of what is called the second sight, amongst the Scots, was not doubted: even in the present day it is not disproved; and we can hardly wonder at our ancestors having given credence to the more ancient, more probable, more reasonable superstition of the fates of men being influenced by the stars, or at their believing that the learned and wise could see into futurity, when many in this more enlightened age imagine that some of the rude and illiterate possess the same faculty. It is not, however, my object here to defend long-gone superstitions, or to show that the predictions of the astrologers were ever really verified, except by those extraordinary coincidences for which we cannot account, and some of which every man must have observed in the course of his own life. That they were so verified on several occasions is nevertheless beyond doubt; for it is not the case that, in the most striking instances of this kind, as many writers have asserted, the prediction, if it may be so called, was fabricated after its fulfilment. On the contrary, any one who chooses to investigate may convince himself that the prophecy was, in many instances, enounced, and is still to be found recorded by contemporary writers, before its accomplishment took place. As examples might be cited the prognostication made by an astrologer to Henry the Second of France, that he should be slain in single combat; a thing so unlikely that it became the jest of his whole court, but which was afterwards singularly verified, by his being accidentally killed at a tournament by Montgomery, captain of the Scottish guards. Also the prediction by which the famous, or rather infamous, Catherine de Medicis was warned that St. Germains should be the place of her death. The queen, fully convinced of its truth, never from that moment set foot in town or palace which bore the fatal name; but in her last moments, her confessor being absent, a priest was called to her assistance, by mere accident, whose name was St. Germains, and actually held her in his arms during the dying struggle. These two instances took place about fifty years after the period to which this history refers, and may serve to show how strongly rooted in the minds of the higher classes was this sort of superstition, when even the revival of letters, and the diffusion of mental light, for very long did not seem at all to affect them. The habits and manners of the astrologers, however, underwent great changes; and it is, perhaps, at the particular epoch of which we are now writing, namely, the reigns of Henry the Eighth of England and Francis the First of France, that this singular race of beings was in its highest prosperity. Before that time, they had in general affected strange and retired habits, and, whether as magicians or merely astrologers, were both feared and avoided. Some exceptions, however, must be made to this, as instances are on record where, even in years long before, such studies were pursued by persons of the highest class, and won them both love and admiration; the most brilliant example of which was in the person of Tiphaine Raguenel, wife of the famous Constable du Guesclin, whose counsels so much guided her husband through his splendid career. The magicians and astrologers, however, who were scattered through Europe towards the end of the fifteenth century, and the beginning of that which succeeded, though few in number, from many circumstances, bore a much higher rank in the opinion of the world than any who had preceded them. This must be attributed to their being in general persons of some station in society, of profound erudition, of courtly and polished manners, and also to their making but little pretension on the score of their supposed powers, and never any display thereof, except they were earnestly solicited to do so. There was likewise always to be observed in them a degree of eccentricity, if a habitual difference from their fellow-beings might be so called, which, being singular, but not obtrusive, gave them an interest in the eyes of the higher, and a dignity in the estimation of the lower classes, as a sort of beings separated by distinct knowledge and feeling from the rest of mankind. In those ages, a thousand branches of useful knowledge lay hid, like diamonds in an undiscovered mine; and many minds, of extraordinary keenness and activity, wanting legitimate objects of research, after diving deep in ancient lore, and exhausting all the treasures of antiquity, still unsated, devoted themselves to those dark and mysterious sciences that gratified their imagination with all the wild and the sublime, and gained for them a reverence amongst their fellow-creatures approaching even to awe. As we have said before, whatever was the reality of their powers, or however they contrived to deceive themselves, as well as others, they certainly received not only the respect of the weak and vulgar; but if they used their general abilities for the benefit of mankind, they were sure to meet with the admiration and the friendship of the great, the noble, and the wise. Thus, the famous Earl of Surrey, the poet, the courtier, the most accomplished gentleman and bravest cavalier of that very age, is known to have lived on terms of intimacy with Cornelius Agrippa, the celebrated Italian sorcerer, to whose renown the fame of Sir Cesar of England is hardly second; though early sorrows, of the most acute kind, had given a much higher degree of wildness and eccentricity to the character of the extraordinary old man of whom we speak, than the accomplished Italian ever suffered to appear. In many circumstances there was still a great degree of similarity between them: both were deeply versed in classical literature, and were endowed with every elegant attainment; and both possessed that wild and vivid imagination which taught them to combine in one strange and heterogeneous system the pure doctrines of Christianity, the theories of the Pagan philosophers, and the strange, mysterious notions of the dark sciences they pursued. Amongst many fancies derived from the Greeks, it seems certain that both Sir Cesar and Cornelius Agrippa received, as an undoubted fact, the Pythagorean doctrine of the transmission of the souls through the various human bodies for a long period of existence: the spirit retaining, more or less, in different men, the recollection of events which had occurred to them at other periods of being. One striking difference, however, existed between these two celebrated men. Cornelius Agrippa was all mildness, gentleness, and suavity; while Sir Cesar, irritated by the memory of much sorrow, was wild, vehement, and impetuous; ever striving to do good, it is true, but hasty and impatient under contradiction. The same sort of mental excitement hurried him on to move from land to land and place to place, without seeming ever to pause for any length of time; and as he stood not upon the ceremony of introduction, but made himself known to whomsoever the fancy of the moment might lead him, he was celebrated in almost every part of the world. So much as we have said seemed necessary, in order to give our readers some insight into the character of the extraordinary man whose history is strongly interwoven with the web of the present narrative, and to prevent its being supposed that he was an imaginary being devised for the nonce; but we shall now proceed with him in his proper person. "Let us reason," said Sir Cesar, breaking form abruptly, after he had ridden on with the young knight some way in silence; "let us reason of nature and philosophy; of things that are, and of things that may be; for I would fain expel from my brain a crowd of sad thoughts and dark imaginings, that haunt the caverns of memory." "I should prove but a slow reasoner," replied the young knight, "when compared with one whose mind, if report speak truth, has long explored the deepest paths of science, and discovered the full wealth of nature." "Nay, nay, my friend," answered the old man; "something I have studied, it is true; but nature's full wealth who shall ever discover? Look through the boundless universe, and you shall find that were the life of man extended a thousand fold, and all his senses refined to the most exquisite perfection, and had his mind infinite faculty to comprehend, yet the portion he could truly know would be to the great whole as one grain of sand to the vast foundation of the sea. As it is, man not only contemplates but few of nature's works, but also only sees a little part of each. Thus, when he speaks of life, he means but that which inspires animals, and never dreams that everything has life; and yet it is so. Is it not reasonable to suppose that everything that moves feels? and we cannot but conclude that everything that feels has life. The Indian tree that raises its branches when any living creature approaches must feel, must have sensation; the loadstone that flies to its fellow must know, must perceive that that fellow is near. Motion is life; and if viewed near, everything would be found to have motion, to have life, to have sensation." Sir Osborne smiled. "Then do you suppose," demanded he, "that all vegetables and plants feel?" "Nay, more, much more!" answered the old man. "I doubt not that everything in nature feels in its degree, from the rude stone that the mason cuts, to man, the most sensitive of substantial beings." "It is a bold doctrine," said the young knight, who, willing to gain what insight he could into his companion's character, pressed him for a still further exposition of his opinions, though at the same time he himself felt not a little carried away by the energy of manner and rich modulation of tone with which the old man communicated his singular ideas. "It is a bold doctrine, and would seem to animate the whole of nature. Could it be proved, the world would acquire a glow of life, and activity of existence, where it now appears cold and silent." "The whole of nature is animated," replied Sir Cesar. "Life combined with matter is but a thousandth part of life existent. The world teems with spirits: the very air is thick with them. They dance in the sunshine, they ride upon the beams of the stars, they float about in the melodies of music, they nestle in the cups of the flowers; and I am forced to believe that never a flower fades, or a beam passes away, without some being mourning the brief date of loveliness on earth. Doubt not, for this is true; and though no one can prove that matter is sensitive, yet it can be proved that such spirits do exist, and that they may be compelled to clothe themselves with a visible form. It can be proved, I say, and I have proved it." "I have heard the same reported of you," replied Sir Osborne, "when you, with the renowned Cornelius Agrippa, called up a spirit to ascertain what would be the issue of the battle of Ravenna. Was it not so?" "Speak not of it!" cried the old man, "speak not of it! In that battle fell the bright, the gallant, the amiable Nemours. Though warned by counsel, by prophecy, and by portent, he would venture his life on that fatal battle, and fell. Speak not of it! But now to you and yours. Whither go you?" "My first care," replied Sir Osborne, "must be to seek my father, at whose wish I have now returned to England. To you, who know far more of me and mine than I ever dreamed that mortal here had heard, I need not say where my father dwells." As he spoke, Sir Osborne drew up his horse, following the example of his companion, whose palfrey had stopped at a point where the road, separating into two branches, gave the traveller the option of proceeding either towards Canterbury or Dover, as his business or pleasure might impel. At the same time the young knight fixed his eye upon the other's face, as if to ascertain what was passing in his mind, seeking, probably, thence to learn how far the old man's knowledge really extended in respect to himself and his concerns. "It is a long journey," said Sir Cesar, thoughtfully, "and 'twill take you near three weeks to travel thither and back. Much may be lost or won in three weeks. You must not go. Hie on to Dover, and thence to London: wait there till I give you farther news, and be sure that my news shall be of some avail." "It cannot be," answered Sir Osborne Maurice. "Before I take any step whatever I must see my father; and though I doubt not that your advice be good, and your knowledge more than natural, I cannot quit my road, nor wait in any place, till I have done the journey to which duty and affection call me." "Your own will then be your guide, though it be a bad one," answered Sir Cesar. "But mark, I tell you, if you pursue the road you are on you will meet with danger, and will lose opportunity. My words are not wont to fall idly." "Whatever danger may occur," replied Sir Osborne, "my road lies towards London, and it shall not be easy to impede me on my way." "Ho, ho! so headstrong!" cried the old knight. "I' God's name, then, on! My palfrey goes too slow for your young blood. Put spurs to your steed, sir, and get quick into the perils from which you will need my hand to help you out. Spur, spur, sir knight; and good speed attend you!" "By your leave, then," replied Sir Osborne, taking the old man at his word, and giving his horse the spur. "Sir Cesar, I thank you for your kindness: we shall meet again, when I hope to thank you better; till then, farewell!" "Farewell, farewell!" muttered the old knight; "just the same as ever! If I remember right he was killed in the first Punic war, for not taking the advice of Valerius the soothsayer; and though now his soul has passed through fifty different bodies, he is just as headstrong as ever." And with these sage reflections Sir Cesar pursued his way. Leaving him, however, to his own meditations, we must now, for some time, follow the track of Sir Osborne Maurice, whose horse bore him quickly along that same little tortuous road in the midst of which we first encountered him. To say sooth, some speed was necessary; for whatever might be the cause that induced the young knight to linger at the cottage of old Richard Heartley, and whatever might have been the ideas that had occupied him during so long a reverie, he had wasted no small portion of the day, between listening to the garrulity of the old man, thinking over the circumstances which that garrulity called up to memory, and conversing with the singular being from whom he had just parted; and yet, within a mile of the spot where he had left the astrologer, Sir Osborne drew in his bridle, and standing in the stirrup, looked round him on both sides over the high bank of earth which in that place flanked the road on either hand. After gazing round for a moment, and marking every trifling object with an attention which was far more than the scenery merited from any apparent worth or picturesque beauty, he turned his horse into a small bridle-path, and riding on for about a mile, came in front of a mansion, which, even in that day, bore many a mark of venerable antiquity. A small eminence, at about five hundred yards' distance from it, gave him a full view of the building, as it rose upon another slight elevation, somewhat higher than that on which he stood. Through the trees which filled up the intermediate space was seen gliding a small river, that, meandering amongst the copses, now shone glittering in the sun, now hid itself in the shades, with that soothing variety, gay yet tranquil, placid but not insipid, which is the peculiar characteristic of the course of an English stream. The wind had fallen, the clouds had dispersed, and the evening sun was shining out, as if seducing the early buds to come forth and yield themselves to his treacherous smile, and all the choir of nature was hymning its song of joy and hope in the prospect of delightful summer. Above the branches, which were yet scarcely green with the first downy promise of the spring, was seen rising high the dark octagon keep of Chilham Castle. It was a building of the old irregular Norman construction; and the architect, who probably had forgot that a staircase was requisite till he had completed the tower, had remedied the defect by throwing out from the east side a sort of square buttress, which contained the means of ascending to the various stories of which it was composed. On the west side of the keep appeared a long mass of building of a still more ancient date, surrounded by strong stone walls overgrown with ivy, forming a broken but picturesque line of architecture, stretching just above the tops of the trees, and considerably lower than the tower, while a small detached turret was seen here and there, completing the castellated appearance of the whole. Sir Osborne paused and gazed at it for five or ten minutes in silence, while a variety of very opposite expressions took possession of his countenance. Now it seemed that the calm beauty of the scene filled him with thoughts of tranquillity and delight; now that the view recalled some poignant sorrow, for something very bright rose and glistened in his eye. At last his brow knit into a frown, and anger seemed predominant, as, grasping the pommel of his sword with his left hand, he shook his clenched fist towards the antique battlements of the castle, and then, as if ashamed of such vehemence of passion, he turned his horse and galloped back on the road he came. The moment after he had again entered upon the road to Canterbury, a sudden change took place in the pace of his horse, and perceiving that he had cast a shoe, the young knight was forced, although the sun was now getting far west, to slacken his pace; for the lady who walked over the burning ploughshares would have found it a different story, had she tried to gallop over that road without shoes. Proceeding, therefore, but slowly, it was nearly dark when he reached the little village of Northbourne, where, riding up to the smithy, he called loudly for the farrier. No farrier, however, made his appearance. All was silent, and as black as his trade; and the only answer which Osborne could procure was at length elicited from one of a score of boys, who, with open eyes and gaping mouths, stood round, listening unmoved for a quarter of an hour, while the knight adjured the blacksmith to come forth and show himself. "Can I have my horse shod here or not, little varlet?" cried he at length to one of the most incorrigible starers. "Ye moy, if ye loyke," answered the boy, with that air of impenetrable stupidity which an English peasant boy can sometimes get up when he is half frightened and half sullen. "He means ye moy if ye can," answered another urchin, with somewhat of a more intellectual face: "for Jenkin Thumpum is up at the hostel shoeing the merchant's beast, and Dame Winny, his wife, is gone to hold the lantern. He! he! he!" "Ha! ha! ha!" roared his companions, to whose mind Dame Winny holding the lantern was a very good joke. "Ha! ha! ha! wherever Jenkin Thumpum is, there goes Dame Winny to hold the lantern. Ha! ha! ha!" "But how far is it to the inn, my good boy?" demanded Sir Osborne. "Oh! it's for half an hour up the road, ye see," replied the boy, who still chuckled at his own joke, and wanted fain to repeat it. "But are you sure the blacksmith is there?" demanded Sir Osborne. "Oy, oy!" replied the boy; "as sure as eggs are bacon, if he's not coming back again. So, if ye go straight up along, you'll meet Jenkin coming, and Dame Winny holding the lantern. Ha! ha! ha!" <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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