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Greek Mythography in the Roman World 1st Edition
Alan Cameron Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Alan Cameron
ISBN(s): 9780195171211, 0195171217
Edition: 1
File Details: PDF, 1.45 MB
Year: 2004
Language: english
Greek Mythography in the Roman World
AMERICAN PHILOLOGICAL ASSOCIATION
AMERICAN CLASSICAL STUDIES
VOLUME 48

Series Editor
Donald J. Mastronarde

Studies in Classical History and Society

Meyer Reinhold

Sextus Empiricus
The Transmission and Recovery of Pyrrhonism
Luciano Floridi

The Augustan Succession

An Historical Commentary on Cassius Dio’s “Roman History”
Books 55–56 (9 B.C.–A.D. 14)
Peter Michael Swan

Greek Mythography in the Roman World

Alan Cameron
Greek Mythography in
the Roman World
Alan Cameron

1
2004
 3
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Copyright © 2004 by The American Philological Association

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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Cameron, Alan, 1938–
Greek mythography in the Roman world / Alan Cameron.
p. cm.—(American classical studies ; v. 48)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 0-19-517121-7
1. Latin literature—Greek influences. 2. Latin literature—History and criticism.
3. Rome—Civilization—Greek influences. 4. Mythology, Greek—Historiography.
5. Mythology, Greek, in literature. I. Title. II. American classical studies ; no. 48.
PA3070.C36 2004
470.9'15—dc22 2003047112

1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2
Printed in the United States of America
on acid-free paper
For Carla
This page intentionally left blank
 3
Preface

Despite an extraordinary surge of interest in Greek mythology over the last few
decades, there has been no corresponding interest in our sources of informa-
tion about the myths. Books on mythology have been appearing at an alarming
rate in most modern languages, but not a single comprehensive study of the
mythographers. Of course, we know many famous episodes in the great mythical
sagas direct from the classics (Homer, Hesiod, Pindar, the Attic tragedians), not
to mention monuments of archaic and classical art. But any alert reader who has
tried to follow up earlier or later stages of even the most familiar stories in a care-
fully documented handbook like Timothy Gantz’s indispensable Early Greek Myth
(1993) must be aware that countless details we take for granted are first men-
tioned not by Homer or Aeschylus or even Callimachus but by some anonymous
Roman or even Byzantine hack. Where did they get their information, and how
reliable is it?
Those who teach Greek mythology in American colleges usually assign their
students the Bibliotheca ascribed to Apollodorus, a convenient survey of most of
the main stories. It is indeed a handy, well-arranged, comprehensive manual, with
many virtues. But what are its credentials? A precise date is out of reach, but it is
not likely to be earlier than the first century of our era and might be as late as the
third. In the Bibliotheca’s defense, critics often confidently assert that it is “drawn
from excellent sources,” a claim based on its frequent direct citation of specific
texts from archaic and classical poets and mythographers, citations we can in one
or two cases actually verify ourselves. That is to say, the writer gives the appear-
ance of an easy, firsthand familiarity with the entire range of relevant texts. But
this is an illusion. In all probability he came by most of his citations at second (or
third) hand and had never even seen an original copy of many of the texts he quotes
(Ch. V. 3). The same will usually apply to the scholiasts, however much we might
like to think that some particular scholion bristling with plausible details and
viii PREFACE

archaic citations was copied directly from one of the great Hellenistic critics,
working in the library at Alexandria surrounded by books.
Apollodorus is probably the only mythographer most students (or scholars
for that matter) have ever looked at. There is a handy (if misguided) old Loeb
by J. G. Frazer, and the recent annotated translation by Robin Hard with useful
tables and indexes (Oxford 1997) is especially helpful.1 Some may also have
dipped into Parthenius, who made a rather furtive entry into the Loeb series, as
an appendix to Daphnis and Chloë. My own point of departure into this murky
field of study was a Latin text, the Narrationes, a series of summaries of the
successive stories in Ovid’s Metamorphoses. The few scholars who have paid this
work any attention at all have dismissed it as late (sixth century, if not medi-
eval) and utterly lacking in value. It is indeed of little help to readers of the
Metamorphoses. It is not the Ovidian text it illuminates but the needs of Ovid’s
less cultivated early readers.
In the first place, it can be dated much earlier than generally assumed. No one
has noticed that it draws on a work that can be dated before 300 AD and may well
be earlier still (Ch. I. 3–5). It is in fact a compilation of the second or (at latest)
third century. But what first caught my attention was a number of similarities
between the Narrationes and a sequence of summaries of the successive stories
told in the various poems of Callimachus, called by what is after all the Greek for
Narrationes, Diegeseis, in particular the way both give occasional source references
(Ch. I. 1 and III. 3). These source references are reminiscent of both Apollodorus
and Parthenius, and I soon discovered that they are one of the most characteris-
tic features of early imperial mythographers. The few scholars even to notice the
citations in the Narrationes derived them from an otherwise entirely lost ancient
commentary on the Metamorphoses. But there is no evidence that any such com-
mentary ever existed (Ch. I–II). The source references come in fact from earlier
mythographers. The Narrationes turns out to be a typical mythographic work of
the early empire.
Further investigation revealed more such parallels and more such works, texts
that I have called “mythographic companions,” the most substantial and impor-
tant being a companion to all three poems of Vergil, partially preserved in the
Servian corpus (Ch. VIII). Diegeseis and mythographic companions constitute a
hitherto unidentified group of nonphilological aids to the reading of classical texts
(both Greek and Latin) in the Roman ages: Cliffs Notes to the Classics. They
illustrate, in fact, how people with only a modest literary culture were able to
navigate difficult classics like Callimachus and Aratus, full of often obscure mytho-
logical allusions (Ch. VII).
There is a reason these works have hitherto passed under the radar of literary
historians. Over and above the fact that most are anonymous, they are also de-
rivative and undistinguished, for all their parade of learned source references not

1. The utility of the extensively annotated French translation by Jean-Claude Carrière and
Bertrand Massonie (Paris 1991) is much reduced by the lack of an index.
PREFACE ix

based on genuine research, at best preserving otherwise unknown stories or other-

wise unknown details of familiar stories, of uncertain authority. Their interest and
importance lie in their sheer number rather than any individual specimen of the
genre. Almost all date from the first two centuries of the empire. Their authors
are not interested in the sort of questions about the meaning and function of myth
that have exercised most modern students—and many ancient writers. The
mythographic companions are not even interested in how the poet they are ex-
plaining used the myth in question. They just tell the stories, where possible with
that evidently all-important learned reference.
I devote much space (especially Ch. V–VI) to the question of this elaborate
and often very precise documentation (titles and even book numbers), the more
intriguing in that so much of it is derivative, and not a little actually bogus. Critics
have long been uncomfortably aware that the engaging mixture of mythology,
history, and fantasy offered, complete with extensive and elaborate source cita-
tions, by Ptolemy the Quail (Chennos) and Ps-Plutarch’s Parallela minora and
De fluviis is unreliable, but few have been hard-hearted enough to admit that it is
pure fiction, sources and all (Ch. VI). Ptolemy and Ps-Plutarch belong with the
Historia Augusta in an as yet unwritten chapter of the history of forgery. Even more
or less honest compilers like pseudo-Apollodorus clearly try to give the impres-
sion they have directly consulted texts they only know at second hand. Despite
strong evidence to the contrary, scholars have often been tempted to believe that
Proclus produced his summary of the Epic Cycle directly from the original text
on the basis of his claim that it survived to his own day. T. W. Allen was outraged
at the assumption of German sceptics that Proclus had “deceived his public.”2
No contemporary would have taken such a claim seriously.
Yet by no means all the strange variations on familiar tales found in unlikely
places are fabrications. Some are genuine local versions that simply chance to be
first recorded in some late text. For example, the people of Xanthos (in Lycia) and
Ephesos believed that Artemis was born at Xanthos and Ephesos, respectively,
not (as most of the poets said) on Delos. Improbably enough, the Ephesian ver-
sion is first reported by Strabo and Tacitus. The student of classical poetry can
happily ignore such curiosities, but not the social historian of Greco-Roman Asia
Minor. A great many probably quite ancient mythological traditions are only at-
tested by the coinage of some small city or an entry in the Ethnica of Stephanus
of Byzantium.
It is a commonplace that ancient writers in general eschew precise documen-
tation, above all historians. Arnaldo Momigliano underlined the importance of
Eusebius’s Ecclesiastical History in attributing “a new importance . . . to documen-
tary evidence.” Paul Veyne objected that Eusebius did not so much cite sources
as transcribe excerpts, as Porphyry, Diogenes Laertius, and others had done before
him. By carefully arranging his excerpts in chronological sequence, Eusebius cer-
tainly produced something closer to history than his predecessors, but he was not

2. Homer: The Origins and the Transmission (Oxford 1924), 56.

x PREFACE

systematically footnoting a narrative of his own.3 Yet arguably this is just what
the mythographers purported (or pretended) to be doing. We have here an over-
looked chapter in the history of footnotes (see appendix 4). It is a curious irony
that systematic documentation should begin in so disreputable a corner of
ancient literature.
By late antiquity these early imperial mythographers were heavily drawn on by
those who compiled the scholia we find in medieval manuscripts of the classics
(Ch. V). It has hitherto been taken for granted that the mythological material in
our scholia derives from the same sources as the rest of their material, that is to
say (ultimately, at any rate) the learned commentators of the Hellenistic world.
But if (as I argue) much of it comes from mythographers, learned citations not-
withstanding, it is much less likely to reflect the views and arguments of those
commentators accurately.
Another insufficiently recognized source of mythographical information is
marginal notes in surviving ancient books, mostly codices but even rolls (Ch. VII).
It is typical of modern scholarly biases that so-called scholars’ texts offering tex-
tual variants have been exhaustively studied; and all marginalia citing unknown
texts have been dutifully entered in the appropriate collections of fragments. But
a great many marginalia (sometimes no more than glosses) in ancient books that
simply explain mythological allusions have been dismissed as trivial and ignored.
Yet trivial and unoriginal as they are, such notes would have provided welcome
assistance to poorly prepared readers of allusive classical texts.
The significance of mythographic handbooks, companions, and scholia lies in
the way they document the importance (and the difficulty) of acquiring a work-
ing knowledge of the basic stories of classical mythology in the Roman period.
Anyone with any pretensions to literary culture, that is to say any member of the
elite, had to be able to identify mythological allusions in the literature he read
and the oratory he listened to, as well as mythological scenes in wall paintings,
mosaics, silver plate, and other media. Greek mythology was the cultural currency
of the Greco-Roman world. The mythographers are documents as much of social
as of literary history.
It would no doubt have been more useful if I had written a systematic his-
tory of Greco-Roman mythography. But over and above my reluctance (and lack
of competence) to trespass on Robert Fowler’s territory, mythography is not a
subject that readily lends itself to systematic treatment. Its early stages have to
be reconstructed on the basis of its later representatives, who (as we have seen)
are unreliable witnesses. If asked to name a “typical” mythographer, most schol-
ars would probably come up with Apollodorus. Yet the Bibliotheca is the only
comprehensive mythographic work of its age. Most other mythographers of the

3. “Though we may have learnt to check our references from Eusebius,” A. Momigliano, Essays
in Ancient and Modern Historiography (Oxford 1977), 124; see 145; P. Veyne, Did the Greeks Be-
lieve in Their Myths? (Chicago 1983), 12–3. As Tony Grafton pointed out in a recent lecture (New
York Public Library, April 2003), the lost Chronographia of Eusebius must in effect have been a
series of footnotes defending the decisions made in the text of his Chronici Canones.
PREFACE xi

Hellenistic and Roman period either have a specialized purpose of one sort or
another (genealogical lists, love stories, stories of metamorphosis or catasterism);
or else they provide mythographic companions to specific ancient texts (Homer,
Aratus, Callimachus, Apollonius, Vergil), limiting themselves to the stories al-
luded to in those poems. All the works included in my own (fairly generous)
definition of mythographer (Ch. I. 6) share two common features: they offer a
narrative, not an interpretation of the stories they deal with; and they all cite
classical or Hellenistic sources. I have left out of account all texts that offer al-
legorical and philosophical interpretations of the myths, already studied in a
variety of modern works, (notably Félix Buffière, Les mythes d ’Homère et la pensée
grecque [Paris 1956]). Those that simply repeat the stories, usually in a “bald and
unconvincing narrative,” have hitherto seemed unworthy of any extended treatment
or analysis. Geoffrey Kirk dismissed Hellenistic and Roman mythographers as
“arid” and “sterile.”
Like most of my books, this is not one I had planned to write. When Richard
Tarrant sent me a copy of his 1995 paper on the textual transmission of the Nar-
rationes, I at once jotted down a few similarities to the Callimachean Diegeseis
(Ch. III. 1). Those observations might have remained a handful of marginalia in
an offprint but for an invitation from Pat Easterling to participate in the Laurence
Seminar on ancient scholia at Cambridge in June 2000. It was this invitation
that provoked me to take a closer look at this all but completely neglected text
and unearth its various links to little known but in their day widely circulating
Hellenistic predecessors. I was increasingly drawn away from my major project of
the moment (The Last Pagans of Rome) to the mythographers, though the book
has benefited from studies in the Latin scholia of late antiquity originally under-
taken in connection with The Last Pagans. It is more than half a century now since
Eduard Fraenkel drew attention to the Hellenistic roots of both the methods and
the learning we find in the Vergil scholia, and yet very little has been done to ex-
tend his approach to the scholia on other Latin poets.
It was not till I had completed an early draft that I learned of three useful tools
that would have eased my first steps in unfamiliar terrain: Monique van Rossum-
Steenbeek’s Greek Readers’ Digests? Studies on a Selection of Subliterary Papyri
(Leiden 1998); Jane Lightfoot’s Parthenius of Nicaea (Oxford 1999); and above
all Robert Fowler’s plan to collect and comment on “the fragments of Greek
mythography from its beginnings to the early fourth century [BC].” Fowler’s first
volume (Early Greek Mythography i, Oxford 2000) contains a meticulously con-
structed text (a distinct improvement on Jacoby), a brief but helpful introduction,
and very full indexes, of Greek words as well as names. Since my coverage does
not begin till the late Hellenistic period and is mainly concerned with works of
the first and second centuries ad, it might seem that our projects complement
each other rather than overlap. Yet Fowler’s main authors are also the main au-
thorities quoted by the Roman mythographers and Byzantine scholiasts. That is
to say, a great many of the quotations of his fellows come from my fellows. To be
sure, a student of early Greek mythography is concerned with what Acusilaus,
xii PREFACE

Pherecydes, & Co. say, whereas I am simply concerned with the transmission of
their views. Nonetheless, I much regret that I was unable to profit from Fowler’s
commentary volume, still in preparation. Another tool that will ease the task of
future researchers in this field is Marc Huys’s new website on mythographical
papyri (http:/cmp.arts.kuleuven.ac.be/searchform.html).
Those familiar with the flood of recent books on Greek mythology will notice
(I hope with relief) that this one does not offer yet another tedious account of the
multitude of (often misguided and invariably unsatisfactory) modern attempts to
define myth. I would point out instead that by the Roman age there was one (by
implication) universally accepted definition of mythology: a corpus of stories every
educated person was expected to know. Greek mythology had become a central
element in the literary culture of the age, Greek and Latin alike (Ch. IX). It was
carefully studied in school, and the main purpose of the mythographic writings
we now know from the papyri to have been widespread throughout the Hellenis-
tic and Roman world was to help people acquire this knowledge.

I have never been much exercised by the spelling of classical names in English,
and I normally follow my regular practice of using the familiar Latinized forms
(Achilles rather than uncouth monstrosities like Akhilleus). Less familiar names
are more of a problem. Those from Greek texts I transliterate (more or less), those
from Latin texts I leave in the original Latin form. But problems inevitably arose
when I was faced with quoting Greek sources for texts written in Latin, or citing
Greek texts for stories about Neptune or Latin sources for stories about Zeus.
Under the circumstances it might seem uncharacteristically purist of me to have
insisted on “pseudo-Apollodorus” for the author of the Bibliotheca. I do so, first
because it was both relevant and necessary to distinguish between the Bibliotheca
and the various works of the scholar Apollodorus of Athens of the second century
BC, a major source of the learned citations in both the Bibliotheca and other
mythographers of the Roman period. And second because there are good grounds
for believing that the author of the Bibliotheca was not just another person called
Apollodorus but was quite specifically misidentified as Apollodorus of Athens by
Byzantine scholiasts (Ch. V. 3).
A number of scholars have answered queries and provided help of various sorts:
Alessandro Barchiesi, Nichola Chiarulli, Frank Coulson, Philip Hardie, Andrew
Feldherr, Michael Herren, Raffaelle Luiselli, Peter Knox, Jim O’Hara, Giovanni
Ruffini, Gareth Williams. I am particularly grateful to Katy MacNamee for giving
me the benefit of her vast knowledge of annotated papyri in revising Ch. VII. Gregory
Hays and Bob Kaster made very helpful comments on the version (now much ex-
panded and refined) that I first submitted to the APA Monographs Series. Marilyn
Skinner and Donald Mastronarde were kind enough to help with the proofs. Finally,
I would like to repeat my thanks to Pat Easterling for the invitation to write the paper
that turned into this book, and to Bob Fowler for reading the entire manuscript in
a nearly final version.
PREFACE xiii
3
Contents

Abbreviations xv
Chapter 1. An Anonymous Ancient Commentary on
Ovid’s Metamorphoses? 3
Chapter 2. The Greek Sources of Hyginus and Narrator 33

Chapter 3. Mythological Summaries and Companions 52

Chapter 4. Narrator and His Greek Predecessors 70

Chapter 5. Historiae and Source References 89

Chapter 6. Bogus Citations 124

Chapter 7. Myth in the Margins 164

Chapter 8. Mythographus Vergilianus 184

Chapter 9. Myth and Society 217

Chapter 10. The Roman Poets 253

Chapter 11. Conclusion 304

Appendix 1. Lactantius Placidus 313

Appendix 2. Three Versions of Hyginus 317

Appendix 3. The Text of the Narrationes 319

Appendix 4. Marginal Source Citations in Parthenius and
Antoninus Liberalis 321

Appendix 5. Source Citations in the Origo Gentis Romanae 328

Appendix 6. Anonymus Florentinus 335

Index 341
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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.

CHAPTER XV.
Though heaven's inauspicious eye
Lay black on love's nativity,
Her eye a strong appeal shall give;
Beauty smiles, and love shall live.--Crashaw.

When Dr. Butts had left them, the knight would fain have excused
himself from accompanying his old tutor on the proposed visit. He
had encountered many a danger in the "imminent deadly breach,"
and the battle-field, with as light a heart as that which beats in
beauty's bosom when she thinks of sunning herself in admiring looks
at the next ball; but now his courage failed him at the thought of
meeting the person he loved best, and so much did his spirit quail,
that "you might have brained him with a lady's fan."

Dr. Wilbraham, however, pressed, and insisted so intently upon

the pleasure it would give Lady Constance to see him after his
escape, and the rudeness which might be attributed to him if he did
not wait upon her soon, that he at length consented to go; and
shortly after the physician had left them they themselves took their
way towards the dwelling of the lady. In this happy age, when
choice is as free as thought, we can hardly imagine the generous
nobility of England submitting to yield the selection of a companion
for life to the caprice of a king or of his favourite; yet such was
frequently the case in the times whereof we write; and dangerous
would it have been to have opposed the will of the despotic Henry,
or his tyrant minister, when the whim of the one, or the interest of
the other, led them to seek the union of any two families. It is true
that the sad example of Lady Arabella Stuart was not yet before
their eyes; but still, the arbitrary power of the king was well enough
established to judge of what he might do, and few would have been
found bold enough to assert their liberty of choice in opposition to
his command. Nor at that time was Wolsey's will less potent than the
king's; so that, to the mind of the young knight, the marriage of
Lady Constance with Lord Darby seemed fixed beyond recall.
 There was, however, something in all that the old tutor said of her
anxiety respecting his fate, joined with a certain tenderness that he
had felt in her manner towards himself, and the words she had
inadvertently let drop respecting the fame he had acquired in
Flanders, that gave a vague but delightful feeling of hope to his
bosom; and while walking on with Dr. Wilbraham, there was still
amongst the wild confusion of his thoughts a strange sort of dreamy
plan for winning her yet: the buoyancy of youthful expectation that
would not be depressed, like a child's boat of cork, still rising above
the waves that had overwhelmed many a goodlier vessel.

"If I dared but think she loved me," thought Sir Osborne, "I
should fear nothing;" and he felt as if his single arm could conquer a
world. But then came the remembrance, that as an equivalent for
her rich lands and lordships, he had nothing, absolutely nothing! and
with a sigh he entered the house, which Wolsey had taken care to
provide for his fair ward as near his own palace as possible.

Most doors in that day standing open, Dr. Wilbraham, whose

sacred character gave him much freedom of access, took no pains to
call servant or attendant to announce them; but leading the way up
the narrow winding stairs, opened the door at the end of the flight,
and brought Sir Osborne into a large room, wherein were sitting
several of the young lady's women, occupied in various tasks of
needle-work and embroidery. One of these rose, and in silence gave
them entrance to a chamber beyond, into which the clergyman
conducted his former pupil, without even the ceremony of
announcing him.

Lady Constance, at the moment, was seated somewhat listlessly

on a pile of oriental cushions, holding her arms extended, while Dr.
Butts kept his hand upon her pulse. She was dressed in white, after
the mode of the French of that day: the upper part of her robe,
except the sleeves, which were large and floating, fitting close to her
figure round the waist and shoulders, but falling back, just above the
bosom, into a beautiful standing ruff, or fraise, as the French termed
it, of fine Italian lace. The skirt of the robe was wide and loose, and,
dividing at the girdle, showed part of a satin dress beneath, as well
as the beautiful small foot and delicate ankle, which, hanging over
the edge of the cushions, indicated, fully as much as the heaviness
of her eyes, the languor of sickness and want of rest. A few yards
behind her stood her waiting-woman, who remained in the room,
fully as much in the capacity of duenna, as for the purpose of
serving her mistress.

As Lady Constance did not raise her head when the door opened,
thinking that it was some of the domestics who entered, the eyes of
the waiting-maid were those that first encountered Sir Osborne; and
as she bore him no small goodwill for having given up with such
alacrity the tapestry chamber at the inn to herself and lady,
immediately on perceiving him she burst forth with a pleasurable
"Oh dear!"

Lady Constance looked up, and seeing who entered, turned as red
as fire, then pale, then red again; and starting up from the cushions,
drew her hand suddenly away from Dr. Butts, advanced a step,
hesitated, and then stood still.

"Umph!" muttered the physician, "it's a bad business."

"Oh, Sir Osborne Maurice!" said the lady, her eyes sparkling with
pleasure, although she struggled hard to compose herself, to seem
disembarrassed, and to hide the busy feelings at her heart; "I am
most delighted to see you safe; for indeed I--that is, Dr. Wilbraham--
began to be very seriously alarmed; and though he told me there
was no danger, yet I saw that he was very much frightened, and--
and I hope you got away easily. Will you not take that seat?"

The young knight took the chair to which she pointed, and
thanked her for the interest and kindness she had shown towards
him, with some degree of propriety, though at first he felt his lip
quiver as he spoke; and then he fancied that his manner was too
cold and ceremonious; so, to avoid that he made it somewhat too
warm and ardent, and in the end, finding that he was going from
one extreme to the other, without ever resting at the mean, he
turned to Dr. Butts, and said with a sort of anxiety, which went
thrilling to the heart of Lady Constance, that he hoped he had not
found his patient really ill.

"Indeed I did though!" answered the physician; "a great deal

worse than I had expected, and therefore I shall go directly and tell
my good lord, the reverend father cardinal, that the lady must be
kept as tranquil as possible, and as quiet."

"Nay, nay!" said Lady Constance; "I am not so ill, indeed, my

good physician; I feel better now. However, you may go to my lord
cardinal if you will; but I really am better."

"Umph!" said Dr. Butts; "now I think you are worse. But tell me,
lady, why do you quit the habits of your country, to dress yourself
like a Frenchwoman?"

Lady Constance smiled. "Do you not know," said she, "that I am a
French vassal? Do you not know that all the estates that belonged to
my mother, of the Val de Marne and Boissy, are held from the French
crown?"

"Go and see them, lady," said Dr. Butts; "the French air would suit
you better than the English, I've a notion; for a year or two, at
least."

"Nay, Dr. Butts," said Sir Osborne; "why deprive England of Lady
Constance's presence? There are so few like her," he added, in an
under-voice, "that indeed we cannot spare her."

Lady Constance raised her eyes for an instant to his face: they
met his, and though it was but for a moment, that look was
sufficient to determine his future fate. A thousand such looks from
Lady Katrine Bulmer would have meant nothing, from Lady
Constance de Grey that one meant everything, and Sir Osborne's
bosom beat with renewed hope. True, the same obstacles existed as
heretofore; but it mattered not Nothing, he thought, nothing now
could impede his progress; and he would dare all, defy all, win her,
or die.

Nor in truth was the heart of Lady Constancy de Grey less

lightened, although she still felt that trembling fear which a woman,
perhaps, does not wholly lose for long, long after the lips of the man
she loves have made profession of his attachment; yet still she was
almost sure that she was loved. There had been something in
Darnley's manner, in his agitation, in his anxiety about her, in his
very glance, far, far more eloquent than words; and Lady
Constance's certainty that he loved her was more, perhaps, a
sensation of the heart than a conviction of the mind: she felt that
she was loved.

While these thoughts, or feelings, or what you will, were busy in

the bosom of each, a servant entered, and with much more
ceremony than the good chaplain had used to usher in the young
knight, announced that Lord Darby waited in the ante-chamber to
inquire after her ladyship's health.

"Bid him come in," said the young lady, and in a moment after, Sir
Osborne had his rival before his eyes.

He was a slight, elegant young man, dressed with great splendour

of apparel, and possessed of that sort of calm, easy self-possession,
and gay, nonchalant bearing, that made the knight instantly conceive
a violent inclination to cut his throat.

"Good morrow, my fair cousin!" cried he, advancing: "good

morrow, gentles all; God gi'ye good morrow, Mrs. Margaret," to the
waiting woman; "what, have you been standing there ever since I
left you yesterday?" (The woman tossed her head pettishly, much to
the young lord's amusement.) "Gad! you must do like the hens,
then: stand upon one leg while you rest the other. But say, my fair
cousin, how dost thou do?"

"I am not well, my lord," replied the lady, "at least, so Dr. Butts
would fain have me believe, and he says I must have quiet; so, by
your leave, I will not have you quarrel with my woman, Margaret, as
you did yesterday."

"'Faith, not I," answered he; "I love her dearly, bless the mark!
But cousin, his reverend grace the cardinal commends him, by your
humble slave, to your most sublime beauty, and adviseth (that is,
you know, commandeth) that you should betake yourself, for change
of air (which means for his pleasure and purposes), to the court at
Greenwich, to which you are invited by our royal mistress and
queen. And if it seemeth fit to you (which would say, whether you
like it or not) he will have his barge prepared for you to-morrow at
noon."

"Present my thanks unto the very reverend father," replied Lady

Constance, "and say that I will willingly be ready at the hour he
names."

"Nay, if you are so sweetly obedient to all his commands," said

Lord Darby, more seriously, "'faith, Constance, our plan of yesterday
will fall to the ground; for I cannot be rude enough to take it all on
myself." Then darting off into a thousand other subjects, the young
peer laughed, and spoke with light facility of various indifferent
matters, while Dr. Butts looked on, keenly observing all that passed;
and Sir Osborne bent his eyes sternly upon the ground, biting his lip
and playing with the hilt of his sword, more irritated, perhaps, with
the confident gaiety of his rival than he would have been with a
more serious and enthusiastic passion, and certainly not appearing
to advantage where he wished most to please.

"That sword, I think, must be of Spanish mounting," said Lord

Darby, at length turning calmly towards the knight.
 "Sir!" replied Sir Osborne, raising his eyes to his face.

"I asked whether that sword was not mounted in Spain, sir
knight?" said Lord Darby, quietly. "Will you let me look at it?" and he
held out his hand.

"I am not in the habit, my lord," replied Sir Osborne, "of giving
my weapon out of my own hands; but in answer to your question, it
was mounted in Spain."

"I never steal folk's swords!" said the peer, with the same
imperturbably nonchalant air; and then turning to Dr. Wilbraham, he
went on: "Dear Dr. Wilbraham, do let me see that book you talked of
yesterday; for as you go to Greenwich to-morrow, I shall never
behold any of you again, I am sure."

The good chaplain, who had remained silent ever since he had
been in the room, not at all understanding what was the matter
between Lady Constance and the young knight, although he
evidently saw that they had from the first been both agitated and
embarrassed, now rose, and went to search for the book which Lord
Darby required, very willing to get away from a scene he did not in
the least comprehend. To make way for him, however, Sir Osborne
raised his cap and plume, which had hitherto lain beside him; and as
he did so, the sapphire ring that had been given him by Lady Katrina
Bulmer met the eye of Lord Darby, and instantly produced a change
in his whole demeanour. His cheek burned, his eye flashed, and,
starting upon his feet, he seemed as if he would have crossed over
towards Sir Osborne; but then recovering himself, he relapsed into
his former somewhat drawling manner, took leave of Lady
Constance, and, without waiting for Dr. Wilbraham's return, left the
apartment. A moment after, the physician also rose, in his usual,
quick, precipitate manner, saying that he must depart.

"But, doctor! doctor!" cried Mrs. Margaret, the waiting-woman,

seeing him proceeding towards the door, "you have not told me how
I am to manage my mistress."

"I can't stop! I can't stop!" said the physician, still walking on out
of the room. "What is it! What is it?"

"Nay, but, doctor, you must tell me!" cried she, running after him.
"Indeed, I shall not know what to do with my lady." Still the doctor
walked on, giving her, however, some necessary directions as he
went, and Mrs. Margaret following for a moment, left the two lovers
alone.

Darnley felt that it was one of those precious instants which, once
lost, rarely if ever return; but an irresistible feeling of anxiety tied his
tongue, and he could but gaze at Lady Constance with a look that
seemed to plead for pardon, even for what he felt. The fair girl
trembled in every limb; and as if she knew all that was passing in his
mind, dared not look up but for a single glance, as she heard the
last words hang on the physician's lip, as he began to descend the
stairs.

Darnley raised the glove that lay beside her. "May I--may I have
it?" said he.

"Oh, Darnley!" she replied; and happy almost to delirium, he

placed the glove in his bosom, and pressed an ardent kiss upon her
hand.

"Go!" cried she; "for heaven's sake, go if you love me! We shall
meet again soon."

The knight obeyed, almost as agitated as herself; and passing out

of the room just as Mrs. Margaret entered, he followed Dr. Butts,
whose steps he heard descending the stairs before him.
 CHAPTER XVI.

Tybalt.--Gentlemen, good den; a word with one of you.

Mercutio.--And but one word with one of us? Couple it with something; make it
a word and a blow.

Tybalt.--You shall find me apt enough to that, sir, if you give me occasion.
Romeo and Juliet.

Scarcely knowing what he did, Sir Osborne sprang after Dr. Butts,
and walked on with him for a minute or two in silence, while his
brain turned, and all his thoughts and feelings whirled in inextricable
confusion.

"Ah!" muttered the physician to himself, seeing the absent

agitated air of his young companion; "ah! you've been making a fool
of yourself, I see, though you've not had much time either."

The murmuring of the good doctor, however, did not disturb in the
least the young knight's reverie, which might have lasted an
indefinite space of time, had he not been roused therefrom by a
smart tap on the shoulder. Laying his hand upon his sword, he
turned suddenly round, and beheld Lord Darby, who, seeing him
grasp the hilt of his weapon, pointed to it coolly, saying, "Not here,
sir, not here; but anywhere else you please."

"What would you with me, sir?" demanded the knight, not exactly
understanding his object, though quite ready to quarrel upon any
provocation that might occur.

"But a trifle," replied the earl. "You looked at me some five

minutes past as if I had offended you in something. Now, that being
the case, I am ready to make reparation at the sword's point when
and where it may suit your convenience."

"But, my good lord," said Dr. Butts, who had turned back, "this is
a mistake. How can you have offended this good knight, who never
saw you till to-day?"

"Oh, the problem! the problem, my good doctor," replied Lord

Darby. "Why does a farmer's cur bark at a beggar, and let a ruffling
gallant swagger by? Perchance the knight may not like my
countenance; my complexion, my nose, may not please him; my
mouth, the cut of my beard."

"Faith! neither one nor the other pleases me particularly,"

answered Sir Osborne. "At all events, my lord, if your wish be to
quarrel with me, I will not balk your humour. So say your will, and
have it."

"Oh! if that be the case," said Lord Darby, "and you'd rather be
quarrelled with than quarrel, the offence shall come on my part. Fair
sir, I dislike that scar upon your brow so much that I shall not be
content till I make its fellow on your heart; therefore, when your
good humour serves to give me an opportunity of tilting at your
nose, you will find me your very humble servant."

"Nay, now, my lord!" cried Dr. Butts, "I must witness that you
have given the provocation; for under any other circumstances, this
gentleman is so situated that 'twould be mere madness to meet you
as you wish."

"If it be provocation he desires," cried the earl, "he shall have a

dish of it, so cooked as to serve an emperor. He is a gentleman, I
suppose, and worth a gentleman's sword?"

"Your equal in every respect, and your better in many," replied the
knight. "And in regard to provocation, I have had as much, my lord,
as your body may well bear in repayment. How do you choose to
fight?"

"Quietly! quietly!" answered the earl. "A few inches of tough steel
are as good as a waggon load. A double-edged sword, sir, such as
we both wear, may serve our turn, I should suppose; and as it may
be unpleasant to both of us to make the monster multitude busy
with our little affair, we will be single, hand to hand. I do detest the
habit of making the satisfaction of private wrongs the public
amusement. We'll have no crowd, sir, to look on and criticise our
passados, as if we were gladiators on a stage. Where shall it be?"

"Why, faith, my lord!" answered the knight, "as I am a mere

stranger here, I know but of one place. The gardens of my Lord of
Buckingham, at the Rose, are large; and I remarked this morning a
grove, where there must be good space and quiet. If, therefore, you
will inquire for me at his grace's dwelling this evening, at four of the
clock, you will find me prepared to receive you."

Lord Darby waved his hand for his page to come up, who stood
chattering with the foot-boy that had accompanied the knight, and
taking from him a case of tablets, he wrote down the name of Sir
Osborne, and the place and hour he had appointed. "And now, fair
sir," said he, "I will leave you. I shall not miss my hour. Good doctor,
your profession has doubtless taught you secrecy, and so farewell!"

So saying, Lord Darby walked away, leaving Sir Osborne with Dr.
Butts. "Ah!" cried the physician, "a bad business! a bad business! Yet
it cannot be helped; if two people will fall in love with the same
woman, what can be done? But it's a bad business for you. If he kills
you, why that is not pleasant; and if you kill him, you must fly your
country. A bad business! a bad business! But fare ye well! Don't kill
him if you can help it; for he's not bad, as times go; wound him
badly, then it may be mended. Fare ye well! fare ye well!" and
turning away he left Sir Osborne, not appearing to take much heed
of the approaching duel, though in reality deeply occupied with the
means of preventing it, without betraying the trust that had been
reposed in him.

Sir Osborne was not displeased to be left to his own meditations;

and plunged in thought, he followed his young guide down a narrow
lane, running between the gardens of York and Durham Houses. "I
thought, sir, you might like to take boat," said the boy, who was
himself completely wearied out with waiting for the knight, "and so
brought your worship down here, where there is always a boatman.
'Twill save three miles, your worship."

Sir Osborne signified his assent, and the boat being procured, he
was soon after landed within a short distance of St. Lawrence
Poulteney, where he was received with great respect by the duke's
household, and formally marshalled to his apartment. Two hours still
remained to the time of rendezvous, which he spent in writing to his
father; never thinking, however, of alluding to his approaching
rencontre; for in truth, though not vain either of his skill or strength,
he had enjoyed so many opportunities of proving both, that he well
knew it must be a strong and dexterous man indeed, who would not
lie greatly at his mercy in such an encounter as that which was to
ensue.

In the mean while, Lord Darby, carried away by passion, thought

of nothing but his approaching meeting; and though he looked upon
Sir Osborne as some knight attached to the Duke of Buckingham, he
was very willing to pass over any little difference of rank for the sake
of gratifying the angry feelings by which he was possessed. He was,
however, very greatly surprised, when on presenting himself,
towards four o'clock, at the manor-house of the Rose, he found that
the same attendance and respect waited Sir Osborne Maurice, a man
he never even heard of, as he had seen paid to the Duke of
Buckingham himself. Two servants marshalled the way to the
knight's apartments, one ran on before to announce him; and with a
deference and attention which evidently did not proceed from his
own rank, for he had not given his name, but rather, apparently,
from the station of the person whom he went to visit, he was
ushered into the splendid apartments which had been assigned to
the knight.

Sir Osborne rose from the table where he had been writing, and
with graceful but frigid courtesy, invited him to be seated, which was
complied with by the earl, till such time as the servants were gone.

"Now my lord," said Sir Osborne, as soon as the door was shut, "I
am at your service; I will finish my writing at my return. Will you
examine my sword, 'tis apparently somewhat longer than yours, but
here is one that is shorter. Now, sir."

"That is shorter than mine," said Lord Darby. "Have you not
another?"

"Not here," replied the knight; "but this will do, if you are satisfied
that it is not longer than your own. By this passage we shall find our
way to the garden privately, as I am informed. Pardon me, if I lead
the way."

Lord Darby followed in silence, perhaps not quite so contented

with the business in which he had engaged as when he undertook it.
There was a sort of calm determination in Sir Osborne's manner, that
had something in it very unpleasantly impressive, and the young
peer began to think it would have been better to have sought some
explanation ere he had hurried himself into circumstances of what
might be unnecessary danger. However, he felt that it was now too
late to make any advance towards such a measure; and there, too,
in the knight's cap, still stood the identical large sapphire ring,
which, if he might believe his eyes, he had seen a thousand times on
the hand of his promised wife. The sight, thereof, served
marvellously well to stir up his anger; and striding on, he kept equal
pace with Sir Osborne down the long alley which led from the house
into a deep grove near the side of the river. The knight paused at a
spot where the trees concealed them from the view of the house,
and opening out into a small amphitheatre, gave full space for the
deadly exercise in which they were about to be engaged.

"Now, Lord Darby," said he, drawing his sword, and throwing
down the scabbard before him, "you see me as I stand; and as a
knight and a gentleman, I have no other arms, offensive or
defensive, but this sword, so help me God!"

"And so say I," replied Lord Darby, "upon my honour;" and

following the knight's example, he drew his sword, cast the sheath
away from him, and brought his blade across that of his adversary.

"Madmen! what are ye about to do?" cried a stern voice from the
wood. "Put up, put up!" and the moment after, the diminutive form
of Sir Cesar the astrologer stood directly between them. "What
devil," he continued, parting their drawn swords with his bare
hands; "what devil has tempted ye--ye, of all other men, destined to
bring about each others' happiness--what devil, I say, has tempted
ye to point these idle weapons at each other's life?"

"Sir Cesar," said Lord Darby, "I am well aware that you possess
the means of seeing into the future by some method, for which
scurrilous people hint that you are likely to be damned pretty
heartily in the next world; so you are just the person to settle our
dispute. But tell us, which it is of us two that is destined to slay the
other, and then the one who is doomed to taste cold iron this day
will have nothing to do but offer his throat, for depend upon it, only
one will leave this spot alive."

"Talk not so lightly of death, young lord," replied the old man, "for
'tis a bitter and unsavoury cup to drink, as thou shalt find when thy
brain swims, and thy heart grows sick, and thine eye loses its light,
and thy parting spirit reels upon the brink of a dim and shadowy
world. But I tell thee that both shall leave this spot alive; though if
any one remained upon this sward, full surely it were thyself; for
thou art as much fitted to cope with him as the sapling with the
thunderbolt of heaven. But listen, each of you, I adjure you: state
what you demand of the other; and if, after all, ye be still bent upon
blood, blood ye shall have. But full sure am I that now neither fool
knows what the other seeks."

Both the antagonists stood silent, gazing first on each other, and
then on Sir Cesar, as if they knew not what to reply, and both feeling
that there might be some truth in what the old man advanced. At
length, however, Lord Darby broke forth, "God's life, what he says is
true! Sir Osborne Maurice, what do you seek of me?"

"Speak! speak!" cried Sir Cesar, turning to the knight, who

seemed to hesitate; "speak, if the generous blood of a thousand
noble ancestors be still warm in your veins! Be candid, and charge
him like a man."

Sir Osborne's cheek burned. "The quarrel is of his own seeking,"

said he, "and what I have to say, I know not how to speak, without
violating the confidence of a lady, which cannot be."

"Then I will speak for you," said Sir Cesar. "Lord Darby he
demands that you shall yield all claim and all pursuit of Lady
Constance de Grey. This is his demand; now for yours. Oh! if I am
deceived in you, woe to you and yours for ever!"

"I can scarcely suppose," replied the earl, with bitter emphasis,
"that such be this knight's demand, when I see the ring of another
lady borne openly in his bonnet; a lady that shall never be his, so
long as one drop of blood flows in my veins."

"This ring, my lord," replied Sir Osborne, taking it from the plume
of his hat, "was only trusted with me as a deposit to transmit to the
person to whom it originally belonged, claiming his advice for a lady,
whose affianced lover was, as report said, about to wed another; Sir
Cesar, I give it unto you for whom it was intended."
 "Faith, I have been in the wrong!" cried Lord Darby, extending his
hand frankly to Sir Osborne. "In the first place, pardon me, sir
knight, for having insulted you; and next, let me say, that in regard
to Lady Constance de Grey, I have no claim but that of kindred upon
her affection, and none upon her hand. Farther, if you can show that
your rank entitles you to such alliance, none will be happier than
myself to aid you in your suit. Though, let me observe, without
meaning offence, that the name of Sir Osborne Maurice is unknown
to me, except as connected with the history of the last reign. And
now, sir, having said thus much, doubtless you will explain to me
how that ring came into your possession, and by what motives Lady
Katrine Bulmer could be induced to confide her most private affairs
to a gentleman who can be but an acquaintance of a month."

"Most willingly," replied the knight; and after detailing to Lord

Darby the circumstances which we already know, he added: "The
letter of which I speak is still in my possession, and if you will return
with me to the house, I will deliver it to you, as I cannot doubt, from
what you say, that the report of a marriage being in agitation
between yourself and Lady Constance de Grey originated in some
mistake."

"Faith, not a whit!" cried the earl; "the report is unhappily too
true. The lord cardinal, whom we all know to be one degree greater
than the greatest man in England, has laid his commands upon me
to marry my cousin Constance, although both my heart and my
honour are plighted to another, and has equally ordered my cousin
to wed me, although her heart be, very like, fully as much given
away as mine. However, never supposing we could think of
disobeying, he has already sent to Rome for all those permissions
and indulgences which are necessary for first cousins in such cases;
and on my merely hinting in a sweet and dutiful manner, that it
might be better to see first whether it pleased the lady, he replied,
meekly, that it pleased him, and that it pleased the king, which was
quite enough both for her and me."
 This information did not convey the most pleasing sensations to
Sir Osborne's heart, and in a moment there flashed through his mind
a thousand vague but evil auguries. Danger to Constance herself,
the ruin of his father's hopes, the final destruction of his house and
family, and all the train of sorrows and of evils that might follow, if
Wolsey were to discover his rash love, hurried before his eyes like
the thronging phantoms of a painful dream, and clouded his brow
with a deep shade of thoughtful melancholy.

"Fear not, Osborne Darnley," said Sir Cesar, seeing the gloomy
look of the young knight. "This cardinal is great, but there is one
greater than he, who beholds his pride, and shall break him like a
reed. Nor in this thing shall his will be obeyed. Believe what I say to
you, for it is true; I warned you once of coming dangers, and you
doubted me; but the evils I foresaw fell upon your head. Doubt me
not then now; but still I see fear sits upon your eyelids. Come, then,
both of you with me, for in this both your destinies are linked for a
time together. Spend with me one hour this night, and I will show
you that which shall ease your hearts," and he turned towards the
house, beckoning them to follow.

"I suppose, then, your lordship is satisfied," said Sir Osborne,

taking up the scabbard of his sword, and replacing it with the
weapon in his belt, as the astrologer moved away.

"I should be more satisfied," said Lord Darby, laying his hand on
the knight's arm with a frank smile, "if you would confide in me.
Indeed, I have no title to pry into your secrets," he added, "nor in
those of Constance either, though I think she might have told me of
this yesterday, when I made her a partaker of all mine. However, I
cannot believe that the profound reverence in which all the duke's
servants seem to hold you, can be excited by the unknown Sir
Osborne Maurice. Besides, Sir Cesar called you but now Osborne
Darnley. Can it be that I am speaking to the Lord Darnley, who from
his feats at the court of the princess dowager, goes amongst us by
the surname of the Knight of Burgundy?"[8]
 "I shall not deny my name, Lord Darby," replied the knight. "I am,
as you say, Lord Darnley; but as this has fallen into your knowledge
by mere accident, I shall hold you bound in honour to forget it."

"Nay!" replied the earl. "I shall remember it--to render you, if
possible, all service. But come, Darnley, as by a mistake we began
bitter enemies, now let us end dear friends. I can aid you much, you
can aid me much, and between us both surely we shall be able to
break the trammels with which the cardinal enthrals us. We will put
four young heads against one old one, and the world to nothing we
shall win!"

There was a frankness in Lord Darby's manner that it was

impossible to resist, and taking the hand he tendered him, the
young adventurer met his offered friendship with equal candour.
With the openness natural to youth, the plans of each were soon
told, the sooner, indeed, that their future prospects and endeavours
so greatly depended for success upon their sincere co-operation, and
thus they sauntered back to the house, with very different feelings
from those with which they had left it. Before they had arrived at the
steps of the door, they had run through a thousand details, and were
as much prepared to act together as if their acquaintance had been
of many years' duration. No sooner did the young earl hear that his
new friend had not yet been introduced to the king, than he at once
proposed to be the person to do it, offering to call for him in his
barge the next day but one, and convey him to the court at
Greenwich, where he undertook to procure him a good reception.

"It may be difficult," he said, "to find private audience of those

two persons whom we both feel most anxious to meet. Dame
Fortune, however, may befriend us; but we must be cautious even to
an excess, for Wolsey has eyes that see where he is not present,
and ears that hear over half the realm, and the first step to make
our plans successful, depend upon it, is to conceal them. But, lo!
where Sir Cesar stands at the window of the hall. Now, in the name
of fortune, where will he lead us to-night? 'Tis strange that there
should be men so gifted with rare qualities as to see into the
deepest secrets of nature, to view things that to others are
concealed, and yet seemingly to profit little by their knowledge; for
never did I meet or hear of one of these astrologers that were either
happier or more fortunate than other men. And yet, what were the
good to Sir Cesar to boast a knowledge that he did not possess? For
he seeks no reward, will accept of no recompense, and hourly
exposes what he says to contradiction if it be not true. But doubtless
it is true, for every day gives proofs thereof. That man is a riddle,
which would have gained the Sphynx a good dinner off œdipus. You
seem to know him well, but I dare say know no more of him than
any one else does; for no one that I ever met knows who he is, nor
where he comes from, nor where he goes to; and yet he is well
received everywhere, courted, ay, and even loved, for he is
beneficent, charitable, and humane; is rich, though it is unknown
whence his wealth arises, and possesses wonderful knowledge,
though, I fear me, wickedly acquired. I have heard that those poor
wretches who have mastered forbidden secrets often strive to repair,
by every good deed, the evil that their presumptuous curiosity has
done to their own souls: God knows how it is. But come, let us join
him. The information we gain from him, at all events, is sure."

Entering the manor-house, they passed on into the hall, where

they found Sir Cesar buried in deep thought; and while the young
knight proceeded to his own apartments, to procure the letter which
Lady Katrine Bulmer had entrusted to him, the Earl of Darby
approached the old knight with that sort of constitutional gaiety
which, like a spoiled servant, would very often play the master with
its lord. "Well, Sir Cesar," cried he, "where are your thoughts
roaming? In the world above, or the world below?"

"Farther in heaven than you will ever be," replied the old man.

"Nay, then," continued the earl, "as you can tell everything, past,
present, and to come, could you divine what we were talking of but
now in the gardens?"
 "At first you were talking of what did concern yourselves, and
afterwards of what did not concern you," answered the knight.

"Magic, by my faith!" cried the earl; "and in truth, your coming

just in the nick of time, as folks have it, to save us from slicing each
other's throats, must have had a spice of magic in it too."

"If one used magic for so weak a purpose as that of saving an

empty head like thine," replied the knight, "it would be worthy the
jest with which you treat it. Fools and children attribute everything
to magic that they do not comprehend; but, however, my coming
here had none. Was it not easy for one friend to tell another that he
had heard two mad young men name a place to slaughter each
other, they knew not for what? But here comes thy companion. Read
thy letter, and then come with me; for the light is waning, and the
hour comes on when I can show ye both some part at least of your
destiny."

Lord Darby eagerly cut the silk which fastened Lady Katrine's
letter, and read it with that air of intense earnestness which can
never be put on, and which would have removed from the mind of
Sir Osborne any doubt of the young earl's feelings, even if he had
still continued to entertain such. This being done, they prepared to
accompany Sir Cesar, who insisted that not even a page should
follow them; and accordingly Lord Darby's attendant was ordered to
remain behind and wait his lord's return.

Passing, then, out into the street, they soon found themselves in
the most crowded part of the city of London, which was at that time
of the evening filled with the various classes of mechanics, clerks,
and artists, returning to their homes from their diurnal toil. Gliding
through the midst of them, Sir Cesar passed on, not in the least
heeding the remarks which his diminutive size and singular apparel
called forth, though Lord Darby did not seem particularly to relish a
promenade through the city with such a companion, and very
possibly might have left Sir Osborne to proceed alone if he liked it,
had not that strong curiosity which we all experience to read into the
future carried him on to the end.

Darkness now began to fall upon their path, and still the old man
led them forward through a thousand dark and intricate turnings, till
at length, in what appeared to be a narrow lane, the houses of
which approached so closely together, that it would have been an
easy leap from the windows on one side of the way into those of the
other, the old knight stopped and struck three strokes with the hilt of
his dagger upon a door on the left hand.

It was opened almost immediately by a tall meagre man, holding

in his hand a small silver lamp, which he applied close to the face of
Sir Cesar before he would permit any one to pass. "Il maestro," cried
he, as soon as he saw the dark small features of the astrologer,
making him at the same time a profound inclination, "entra,
dottissimo! Benvenuto, benvenuto sia!"

Sir Cesar replied in an under tone, and taking the lamp from the
Italian, motioned Sir Osborne and the earl to follow. The staircase
up which he conducted them was excessively small, narrow, and
winding, bespeaking one of the meanest houses in the city; and
what still more excited their surprise, they mounted near forty steps
without perceiving any door or outlet whatever, except where a blast
of cold air through a sort of loophole in the wall announced their
proximity to the street.

At length the astrologer stopped opposite a door only large

enough to admit the passage of one person at a time, through which
he led the way, when to the astonishment of both Sir Osborne and
the earl, they found themselves in a magnificent oblong apartment,
nearly forty feet in length, and rather more than twenty in breadth.
On each side were ranged tables and stands, covered with various
specimens of ancient art, which, rare in any age, were then a
thousand times more scarce than they are now.
 Although the taking of Constantinople, about seventy years
before, by driving many of the Greeks amongst whom elegance and
science long lingered, into other countries, had revived already, in
some degree, the taste for the arts of painting and sculpture, still
few, very few, even of the princes of Europe, could boast such
beautiful specimens as those which that chamber contained.

Here stood a statue, there an urn; on one table was an alabaster

capital of exquisite workmanship, on another a bas-relief whose
figures seemed struggling from the stone; medals, and gems, and
specimens of curious ores, were mingled with the rest; and many a
book, written in strange and unknown characters, lay open before
their eyes. There, too, were various instruments of curious shape
and device, whose purpose they could not even guess; while here
frowned a man in armour, there grinned a skeleton; and there,
swathed in its historic bands, stood an Egyptian mummy, resting its
mouldering and shapeless head against the feet of a figure, in which
some long-dead artist had laboured skilfully to display all the
exquisite lines of female loveliness.

To observe all this the two young men had full opportunity, while
Sir Cesar proceeded forward, stopping between each table, and
bringing the flame of the lamp he carried in contact with six others,
which stood upon a row of ancient bronze tripods ranged along the
side of the hall. At the end of the room hung a large black curtain,
on each side of which was a clock of very curious manufacture; the
one showing, apparently, the year, the day, the hour, and the
minute; and the other exposing a figure of the zodiac, round which
moved a multitude of strange hieroglyphic signs, some so rapidly
that the eye could scarcely distinguish their course, some so slow
that their motion was hardly to be discerned.

As Sir Osborne and Lord Darby approached, Sir Cesar drew back
the curtain, and exposed to their sight an immense mirror, in which
they could clearly distinguish their own figures, and that of the
astrologer, reflected at full length.[9] "Mark!" said Sir Cesar, "and
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