Illusive dreams in mystic forms expressed.--Blackmore.
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!"