Paracelsus and his chymistical followers are so many Promethei,
will fetch fire from heaven.--Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy.
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.