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Darnley

<h4>CHAPTER XIV.</h4><div class="poem0"> Paracelsus and his chymistical followers are so many Promethei, will fetch fire from heaven.--Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy. </div> Now might I expend five pages of post octavo, with great satisfaction to my readers and myself, in describing minutely the old rambling palace inhabited by Henry VIII. at Greenwich, particularising its several angles and abutments, its small lattice windows, its bays and octagons, together with the various cartouches and mascarons which filled up the spaces and covered the corbels between; but unhappily I am in an egregious hurry, having already expended one whole tome without getting through a fifth part of the portentous bulk of Professor Vonderbrugius. I might, indeed, comfortably extend my tale to four volumes instead of three. But no, gentle reader! out of consideration for thine exemplary patience, I spare thee the infliction, and shall curtail my descriptions, compress my dialogues, circumscribe my digressions, and concentrate my explanations, so as to restrain my history within the bounds I had originally proposed for its extent. Suffice it, then, to say that Lady Katrine, having recalled to the knight's remembrance that his course lay towards Greenwich, and not to London, as he seemed inclined to direct it, they turned their horses to the right at the bottom of the hill, and soon reached the river-side, where, spreading along a little to the eastward of the spot on which the hospital at present stands, lay a large mass of heavy architecture, which, if judged by modern notions, would be regarded as not very fit for the dwelling of a king. The dull appearance of the building, however, was relieved by the gaiety of the objects round about; for though the sun was now half below the horizon, yet loitering round the various gates of the palace, or running to and fro on their separate errands, was seen a host of servants and attendants in rich and splendid suits, while multitudes of guards and henchmen, decked out to pamper the costly whims of their luxurious lord, showed forth their finery to the evening air. More than one group of lords, and ladies too, enjoying the fine sunset before the palace, made the parade a sort of living pageant; while the river beyond, as if emulous of the gay scene, fluttered and shone with the streamers and gilding of the various barges with which it was covered. To every one they met Lady Katrine seemed known, and all, according to their rank, greeted her as she passed, some with light welcome, some with respectful salutations, all stopping the moment after to turn and fix their eyes upon Sir Osborne, with that sort of cold, inquiring glance which owns no affinity with its object but mere curiosity. "Who is he?" demanded one. "What splendid armour!" cried another. "He must be from Rochester," said a third. But no word of gratulation met his ear, no kind, familiar voice bade him welcome; and he rode on with that chill, solitary sensation of friendlessness which we never so strongly feel as in the presence of a crowd, who, possessing some communion of thought and feeling amongst themselves, have no established link of sympathy with us. At one of the smaller doors in the western wing of the palace, Lady Katrine reined in her horse, and Sir Osborne, springing to the ground, assisted her to dismount, while one of the royal servants, who came from within, held the bridle with all respect. In answer to her question the attendant replied, that "her highness Queen Katherine was at that moment dressing for the banquet which she was about to give to the king and the foreign ambassadors, and that she had commanded not to be interrupted." "That is unfortunate, Sir Osborne Maurice," said the young lady, resuming somewhat of that courtly coldness which had given way to the original wildness of her nature while she had been absent: "I am sure that her highness, who is bounty itself, would have much wished to thank you for the protection and assistance which you have given to me her poor servant. But----" and remembering the charge which the knight had taken of her letter to Lord Darby, she hesitated for a moment, not knowing how to establish some means of communication between them. "Oh! they will break all those things!" she cried, suddenly stopping and turning to the servant. "Good Master Alderson, do look to them for a moment; that groom is so awkward: give him the horse. Now, knight! quick! quick!" she continued, lowering her voice as the servant left them, "Where do you lodge in London? I must have some way of hearing of your proceeding: where do you lodge? Bless us, man in armour! where are your wits?" "Oh! I had forgot," replied the knight; "it is called the Rose, in the Laurence Poultney." "At the Duke of Buckingham's! Good, good!" she replied; and then making him a low curtsy as the servant again approached, she added with a mock gravity that nearly made the knight laugh, in spite of his more sombre feelings, "And now, good sir knight, I take my leave of your worship, thanking you a thousand times for your kindness and protection; and depend upon it, that when her highness the queen shall have a moment to receive you, I will take care to let you know." Thus saying, with another low curtsy, she retired into the palace; and Sir Osborne, mounting his horse, bade adieu to the precincts of the court, bearing away with him none of those feelings of hope with which he had first approached it. There seemed a sort of coldness in its atmosphere which chilled his expectations; and disappointed, too, of his introduction to the queen, he felt dissatisfied and repelled, and had the fit held, might well have taken ship once more, and returned into Flanders. After having thus ridden on for some way, giving full rein to melancholy fancies, he found himself in the midst of a small town, with narrow streets, running along by the river, shutting out almost all the daylight that was left; and not knowing if he was going in the right direction, he called Longpole to his side, asking whether he had ever been in London. "Oh! yes, sir," replied the custrel, "and have staid in it many a month. 'Tis a wonderful place for the three sorts of men: the knaves, the fools, and the wise men; and as far as I can see, the one sort gets on as high as the other. The fool gets promoted at court, the knave gets promoted at the gallows, and the wise man gets promoted to be lord mayor, and has the best of the bargain." "But tell me, Longpole," said Sir Osborne, "where are we now? for night is falling, and in sooth I know not my way." "This is the good town of Deptford," said Longpole; "but if your lordship ride on, we shall soon enter into Southwark, where there is an excellent good hostel, called the Tabard, the landlady of which may be well esteemed a princess for her fat, and a woman for her tongue. God's blessing is upon her bones, and has well covered them. If your worship lodge there you shall be treated like a prince." "It may be better," said Sir Osborne, "for to-night; but you must lead the way, good Longpole, for this is my first sight of the great city." Longpole readily undertook the pilotage of the knight and his company, and in about half-an-hour lodged them safely in the smart parlour of the Tabard: perhaps the very same where, more than a century before, Chaucer, the father of our craft, sat himself at his ease; for the Tabard was an old house that had maintained its good fame for more than one generation, and the landlady piqued herself much on the antiquity of her dwelling, telling how her great-grandfather had kept that very house, ay, and had worn a gold chain to boot; and how both the inn and the innkeepers had held the same name, till she, being a woman, alack! had brought it as her dower to her poor dear deceased husband, who died twenty years ago come Martinmas. All this was detailed at length to Sir Osborne while his supper was in preparation, together with various other long orations, till the good dame found that the knight was not willing to furnish her with even the ahs! ohs! and yes-es, which offer a sort of baiting-places for a voluble tongue; but that, on the contrary, he leaned his back against the chimney, not attending to one word she said after the first ten sentences. Upon this discovery, she e'en betook herself to Longpole, declaring that his master was a proper man, a fine man, and a pensive. Longpole was, we all know, much better inclined to gossiping than his master; and accordingly, as he found that his jolly hostess would fain hear the whole of his lord's history, as a profound secret which she was to divulge to all her neighbours the next morning, he speedily furnished her with a most excellent allegory upon the subject, which found its way (with various additions and improvements, to suit the taste of the reciters) through at least five hundred different channels before the ensuing night. In the mean while the knight supped well, and found himself happier; slept well, and rose with renewed hope. So he was but of flesh and blood, after all. As soon as he was up, and before he was dressed, the door of his chamber flew open, and in rushed a thing called a barber, insisting upon his being shaved. Volumes have been written upon barbers, and volumes still remain to be written, but it shall not be I who will write them. Suffice it, that for the sake of those who know not what I mean, I define a barber. It is a thing that talks and shaves, and shaves and talks, and talks and shaves again; the true immutable that never varies, but comes down from age to age like a magpie, the same busy chattering thing that its fathers were before it. Sir Osborne acquiesced in the operation, of which, indeed, he stood in some want; and the barber pounced upon his visage in a moment. "The simple moustache, I see: the simple moustache!" he cried; "well, 'tis indeed the most seemly manner, though the pique-devant is gaining ground a leetle, a leetle: not that I mean to say, fair sir, that the beard is not worn any way, so it be well trimmed, and the moustache is of a sweet comely nature: the simple moustache! You have doubtless heard, fair sir, of the royal pageant, which cheered the heart of the queen and her ladies last night. We use, indeed, to cut beards all ways, to suit the nature of the physiognomy; supplying, as it were, remedies for the evil tricks of nature. Now, my good Lord Darby gives in to the pique-devant, for it is a turn that ladies love; and doubtless you have heard his marriage spoken of--to a lady--oh! such a beautiful lady! though I cannot remember her name; but a most excellent lady. Your worship would not wish me to leave the pique-devant; I will undertake to raise and nourish it, by a certain ointment, communicated to me by an alchymist, in ten days. Make but the essay, fair sir; try how it comports with the figure of your face." "No, no!" cried Sir Osborne, much in the same manner as the young man of Bagdad. "Cease your babbling, and make haste and shave me." The operation, however, was sooner brought to a termination than in the Arabian Nights; and being free from his chattering companion, the knight took one or two turns in his apartment in deep thought. "So," said he, "this light-of-love, Lord Darby does play the poor girl false; and, as she said, the arrow will rankle in her heart, and rob her of every better hope. But still it is not sure. I will not believe it. If I had the love of such a creature as that, could I betray it?" and the thought of Lady Constance de Grey darted across his mind. "I will not believe it; there must be better assurance than a babbling fool like this. Oh, Longpole!" he continued, as the man entered the room, "I have waited for you. Quick! As you know London, speed to the house of an honest Flemish merchant, William Hans; ask him if he have received the packages from Anvers for me. Give him my true name, but bid him be secret. Bring with you the leathern case containing clothes, and see if he have any letters from Wales. Greet the old man well for me, and tell him I will see him soon. Stay; I forgot to tell you where he lives; it's near the Conduit in Gracious Street, any one near will tell you where. William Hans is his name." Longpole was soon gone; but, to the mind of Sir Osborne, long before he returned. When, however, he did once more make his appearance, he not only brought the news that all the packages which Sir Osborne expected had arrived, but he also brought the large leathern case containing the apparel in which the knight was wont to appear at the court of the Duchess Regent of Burgundy, and a letter which Sir Osborne soon perceived was from his father, Lord Fitzbernard. Being privileged to peep over men's shoulders, we shall make no apology for knowing somewhat of the contents of the old earl's epistle. It conveyed in many shapes the gratifying knowledge to the son that the father was proud of the child, together with many exhortations, founded in parental anxiety, still carefully to conceal his name and rank. But the most important part of the letter was a short paragraph, wherein the earl laid his injunctions upon his son not to think of coming to see him till he had made every effort at the court, and their fate was fully decided. "And then, my son," continued Lord Fitzbernard, "come hither unto me, whether the news thou bringest be of good or bad comfort; for, of a certain, thy presence shall be of the best comfort; and if still our enemies prevail, I will pass with thee over sea into another land, and make my nobility in thy honour, and find my fortune in thy high deeds." Sir Osborne's wishes would have led him into Wales, for after five long years of absence, he felt as it were a thirst to embrace once more the author of his birth; but still he saw that the course which his father pointed out was the one that prudence and wisdom dictated, and therefore at once acquiesced. For a while he paused, meditating over all the feelings that this letter had called up; but well knowing that every moment of a man's life may be well employed, if he will but seek to employ them, he cast his reveries behind him, and dressing himself in a costume more proper to appear at the house of the Duke of Buckingham, he commanded his armour to be carefully looked to, and paying his score at the Tabard, departed to fulfil his noble friend's hospitable desire, by taking up his lodging at the manor-house of the Rose, in Saint Laurence Poultney. Passing through Southwark, he soon arrived at London Bridge, which, as every one knows, was then but one long street across the water, with rich shops and houses on each side, and little intervals between, through which the passenger's eye might catch the flowing of the Thames, and thence only could he learn that he was passing over a large and navigable river. The shops, it is true, were unglazed and open, and perhaps to a modern eye might look like booths; but in that day the whole of Europe could hardly furnish more wealth than was then displayed on London Bridge. The long and circumstantial history given by Stowe will save the trouble of transcribing the eleven pages which Vonderbrugius bestows upon this subject; for though I cannot be sure that every one has read the old chronicler's "Survey of London," yet certainly every one may read it if they like. Passing, then, over London Bridge, the knight and his followers took their way up Gracious Street (now corruptly Gracechurch Street), and riding through the heart of the city, soon arrived at the gates of the Duke of Buckingham's magnificent mansion of the Rose. As they approached the garden entrance, they observed a man covered with dust, as from a long journey, dismount from his horse at the door, bearing embroidered on his sleeve the cognizance of a swan; from which, with the rest of his appearance, Sir Osborne concluded that he was a courier from the duke. This supposition proved to be correct: the considerate and liberal-minded nobleman having sent him forward to prepare the household to receive his young protegé, and also for the purpose of conveying various other orders and letters, which might tend to the advancement of his views. But it so unfortunately had happened, the man informed the knight, that he had been attacked on the road by four armed men, who had taken from him his bag with the letters, and that therefore the only thing which remained for him to do was to deliver the verbal orders which he had received to his grace's steward, and then to return to his lord and inform him of the circumstances as they had occurred. The profound respect with which he was treated very soon evinced to Sir Osborne what those verbal orders were. He found the retinue of a prince ready to obey his commands, and a dwelling that in decoration, if not in size, certainly surpassed that of the king. It was not, however, the object of the young knight to draw upon himself those inquiries which would certainly follow any unnecessary ostentation; nor would he have been willing, even had it coincided with his views, to have made his appearance at the court with so much borrowed splendour. He signified, therefore, to the chamberlain his intention of requiring merely the attendance of the three yeomen, who, with his own custrel, had accompanied him from Kent; and added that, though he might occupy the apartments which had been allotted to him when he was in London, and dine at the separate table which, by the duke's command, was to be prepared for himself, he should most probably spend the greater part of his time at Greenwich. Having made these arrangements, he determined to lose no time in proceeding to seek for Dr. Butts, the king's physician, at whose house he had good hopes of hearing of his old tutor, Dr. Wilbraham, and of discovering what credit was to be given to the reported marriage of the young Earl of Darby. Sir Osborne knew that the physician was one of those men who had made and maintained a high reputation at the court by an honest frankness, which, without deviating into rudeness, spared not to speak the truth to king or peasant. He was a great well-wisher to human nature; and feeling that if all men would be as sincere as himself, the crop of human misery would be much less to reap, he often lost patience with the worldlings, and flouted them with their insincerity. His character contained many of those strange oppositions to which humanity is subject; he was ever tender-hearted, yet often rough, and combined in manner much bluntness with some courtesy. He was learned, strong-minded, and keen-sighted, yet often simple as a child, and much led away by the mad visions of the alchymists of the time. However, as we have said, he was greatly loved and respected at the court; and, from his character and office, was more intimately acquainted with all the little private secrets and lies of the day than any other person perhaps, except Sir Cesar, the astrologer, with whom he was well acquainted, and upon whom he himself looked with no small reverence and respect, shrewdly suspecting that in his magical studies he had discovered the grand secret. Towards his house, then, Sir Osborne directed his steps, taking with him no one but a footboy of the duke's to show him the way; for as the good physician lived so far off as Westminster, it became necessary to have some guide to point out the shortest and most agreeable roads. Instead of taking the highway, which, following the course of the river, ran in nearly a straight line from London to Westminster,[7] the boy led Sir Osborne through the beautiful fields which extended over the ground in the neighbourhood of Lincoln's Inn, and which, instead of being filled with smoky houses and dirty multitudes, were then breathing nothing but sweets from the primroses and other wild spring flowers that were rising fresh out of a rich and grateful soil. Thence, cutting across through many a gate, and over many a stile, his young conductor brought him out into the road just at the little milk and curd-house in the midst of the village of Charing, from whence, looking down the road to the left, they could see the palace, and gardens of the bishops of Durham and York, with the magnificent abbey, rising over some clumps of trees beyond. Passing by York Place, where bustling menials and crowding courtiers announced the ostentatious power of the proud prelate who there reigned, they left the royal mansions also behind them, and entering into some of the narrower and more intricate streets in Westminster, soon reached a house with a small court before it, which, as the boy informed Sir Osborne, was the dwelling of the physician. Seeing a door open opposite, the knight entered and found himself in a sort of scullery, where a stout servant-girl was busily engaged in scrubbing some pots and crucibles with such assiduity, that she could scarcely leave off even to answer his inquiry of whether her master was at home. "Yes, sir; yes, he is at home," replied she at length; "but he cannot be spoken with, unless you are very bad, for he is busy in the laboratory." The knight signified that he had a great desire to speak with him; and the girl, looking at him somewhat more attentively, said that, "if he were from abroad, the doctor would see him she was sure, for he had a great many foreign folks with him always." The knight replied that, though he was not a foreigner, he certainly had come from abroad very lately; upon which assurance the damsel relinquished her crucible-scrubbing, and went to announce his presence. Returning in a few minutes, she ushered him through a long dark passage into a large low-roofed room, at the farther end of which appeared a furnace, with the chimney carried through the ceiling, and near it various tables covered with all sorts of strange vessels and utensils. Round about, still nearer the door, were strewed old mouldering books and manuscripts, huge masses of several kinds of ore, heaps of coal and charcoal, and piles of many other matters, the nature of which Sir Osborne could not discover by the scanty light that found its way through two small lattice windows near the roof. The principal curiosity in the room yet remained. Standing before the furnace, holding in one hand a candle sweltering in the heat of the fire, and in the other a pair of chemical tongs embracing a crucible, was seen a stout portly man, of a rosy complexion, with a fur cap on his head, and his body invested in a long coarse black gown, the sleeves of which, tucked up above his elbows, exhibited a full puffed shirt of very fine linen, much too white and clean for the occupation in which he was busied. "Sir, my wench tells me you are from abroad," said he, advancing a little, and speaking quick. "From Flanders, I see, by your dress. Pray, sir, do you come from the learned Erasmus, or from Meyerden? However, I am glad to see you. You are an adept, I am sure; I see it in your countenance. Behold this crucible," and he poked it so near Sir Osborne's nose as to make him start back and sneeze violently with the fumes. "Sir, that is a new effect," continued the doctor: "I am sure that I have found it. It makes people sneeze. That is the hundred and thirteenth effect I have discovered in it. Every hour, every moment, as it concentrates, I discover new effects; so that doubtless by the time it is perfectly concreted, it will have all powers, even to the great effect, and change all things into gold. But let us put that down;" and taking a paper he wrote, "One hundred and thirteenth effect, makes people sneeze; violently, I think you said? Violently. And now, my dear sir, what news from the great Erasmus?" "None that I know, my good sir," answered Sir Osborne, "as I never had the advantage of his acquaintance." An explanation now ensued, which at last enlightened the ideas of the worthy physician, although he had so fully possessed himself with the fancy that the knight was an adept from Flanders, a country at that time famous for alchymical researches, that it was some time before he could entirely disembarrass his brain from the notion. "Bless my soul!" cried he; "so you are the young gentleman that my excellent good uncle Wilbraham was concerned about; and well he might be, truly, seeing what a lover you are of the profound and noble science. He came here yesterday to inquire for you, and finding that I had heard nothing of you, I thought he would have gone distracted. But tell me, fair sir, have you met with any of the famous green water of Palliardo? Ha! I see you were not to be deceived. I procured some, and truly, on dipping the blade of a knife therein, it appeared gilt. But what was it? A mere solution of copper." "You mistake, I see, still," replied the knight. "In truth, I know nothing of the science to which you allude. I doubt not that it is one of the most excellent and admirable inquiries in the world; but I am a soldier, my dear sir, and have as yet made but small progress in turning anything into gold." "'S life! I know not how I came to think so." cried the doctor; "sure, the servant told me so. Ho, Kitty!" and throwing open the door, he called loudly to the woman, "Ho, Kitty! how came you to tell me the gentleman was an adept? Zounds! I've made him sneeze. But who is that I see in the lavery? Oh, uncle Wilbraham! Come in! come in!" No words can express the joy of the good tutor when he beheld the knight. He embraced him a thousand times; he shook him by the hand; he shed tears of joy, and he made him repeat a thousand times every particular of his escape. "The villain! the wretch!" cried he, whenever the name of Sir Payan was mentioned; "the dissembling hypocrite! We have had news since we left Canterbury that the posse, which I obtained with great difficulty from the magistrates, when they arrived at the manor-house, found every one in bed, but were speedily let in, when Sir Payan sent word down, that though he was much surprised to be so visited, being a magistrate himself, yet the officers might search where they pleased, for that he had had no prisoners during the day but two deer-stealers, whom he had liberated that evening on their penitence. They searched, and found no one, and so sent me a bitter letter this morning for putting them on the business." "I am glad to hear they found no one," said the knight; "for then my poor companion, Jekin Groby, has escaped. But, let me ask, how is Lady Constance!" "Alas! not well, my lord, not well!" answered the clergyman. "First, the anxiety about you: in truth, she has never looked well since, not knowing whether you were dead or alive, and having known you in her youth. Then this sudden news, that my lord cardinal will have her marry her noble cousin, Lord Darby, has agitated her." The knight turned as pale as death, for feelings that had lain unknown in the deepest recesses of his heart swelled suddenly up, and nearly overpowered him. His love for Lady Constance de Grey had run on like a brook in the summer time, which flows sweet, tranquil, and scarcely perceptible, till the first rains that gather in the mountains swell it to a torrent that sweeps away all before it. Of his own feeling he had hitherto known nothing: he had known, he had but felt, that it was sweet to see her, that it was sweet to think of her; but now at once, with the certainty that she was lost to him for ever, came the certainty that he loved her deeply, ardently, irrevocably. "Umph!" said Dr. Butts, at once comprehending all that the changes of the knight's complexion implied; "umph! it's a bad business." "Nay, my good nephew, I see not that," answered the clergyman; who, a great deal less clear-sighted than the physician, had neither seen Sir Osborne's paleness, nor for a moment suspected his feelings: "I see not that. 'Tis the very best marriage in the realm for both parties, and the lady is only a little agitated from the anxiety and hurry of the business." "If that be all," said the doctor, "I'll soon cure her. But tell me, why did you call him 'my lord,' just now?" Dr. Wilbraham looked at the knight with a glance that seemed to supplicate pardon for his inadvertence; but Sir Osborne soon relieved him. "I am going, Dr. Butts," said he, "to ask your advice and assistance, and therefore my secret must be told you. I ask your advice because you know the court thoroughly, and because having, I am afraid, lost one good means of introducing myself to his grace the king, I would fain discover some other; and I tell you my secret, because I am sure that it is as safe with you as with myself." "It is," said the physician. "But if you would have me serve you well, and to some purpose, you must tell me all. Give me no half-confidence. Let me know everything and then if I can do you good I will; if not, your counsel shall not be betrayed, my lord, I suppose I must say." "You had better tell him all your history, my dear Osborne," said Dr. Wilbraham. "He can, and I am sure will, for my sake, serve you well." "My dear Osborne!" echoed the physician. "Then I have it! You are my Lord Darnley, my good uncle's first pupil. Your history, my lord, you need not tell me: that I know. But tell me your plans, and I will serve you heart and hand, to the best of my power." The plans of the young knight need not be again detailed here. Suffice it that he laid them all open to the worthy physician, who, however, shook his head. "It's a mad scheme!" said he, in his abrupt manner. "His grace, though right royal, bountiful, and just, is often as capricious as a young madam in the honeymoon. However, if Buckingham, Abergany, Surrey, and such wise and noble men judge well of it, I cannot say against it. A straw, 'tis true, will balance it one way or t'other. However, give me to-day to think, and I will find some way of bringing you to the king, so as to gain his good-will at first. And now I will go to see Lady Constance de Grey." "We will go along, good doctor!" exclaimed the tutor; "for I must be back to speak with her, and Osborne must render her a visit to thank her for her good wishes and endeavours in his behalf. She will be so charmed to see him free and unhurt that 'twill make her well again." "Will it?" said the doctor, drily. "Well, you shall give her that medicine after I have ordered her mine. But let me have my turn first. I ask but a quarter of an hour, then come both of you; and in the mean time, my good learned uncle, study that beautiful amphora, and tell me, if you can, why the ancient Greeks placed always on their tombs an empty urn. Was it an emblem of the body, from within which the spirit was departed, like the wine from the void amphora, leaving but the vessel of clay to return to its native earth? Think of it till we meet." Thus saying, the learned physician left them, to proceed on his visit to Lady Constance de Grey. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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