University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

The Council-Chamber.
The King, Sevez, Sir David Bruce, Council and Attendants.
King.
How! not attend!—Angus and Daliel ill.

Sev.
So their Oracle, Lord Huntley, reports,
And farther, the he's emproxied to express
Their Thoughts in aught that may concern the public Weal.

King.
Their Sickness is all Pretence!—but admit him.
(Exit Sir David Bruce, and returns with Huntley.
Lord Huntley, welcome to the royal Walls
Of Holy-rood! and well we wish you never
Had estranged them. It would have joy'd us much
To've seen the Lords Daliel and Angus here.
As you are Subjects, Nobles and Kinsmen,
We wish your Love; and we intreat, all Lets,
That may impede our Concord, be remov'd:
Your Presence will be Gladness to our Heart,
Therefore, be oftener in our Eye.

Huntley.
My Leige, I am unfashion'd for your Court.
My Speech, like my Manners, are plain and uncourtly.
I have been bred a Soldier, a Scotch Soldier,
Not an Italian Flatterer. My old Body
Is dry'd and chill'd with toilsome Marches, thro'
Numbing Frost, and scorching Heat, to grapple with
My Country's Foe.
I have not been used to silken Coverlids,
And Solon Beds,—but to the friendly Plaid,
And swampy Earth; and my best Lodging oft
Hath been the dryest Turf, the blooming Hether,
The wholesome Fern. Our unletter'd Bards then
Flatter'd not the Living but prais'd the Dead.
Their Songs were not who steep'd deepest in Italian
Luxury, or deck'd gayest in foreign Frippery,
But who had most Wounds in Battle, or fought
Hardiest in their Country's Cause. This Court
Was not then the Rendezvous of Italian Minstrels,
Priests and Legates,—but the hospitable Home
Of Scotch Nobility; whose Ancestors
This Realm coeval'd; and when grown strengthless
By fighting Scotland's Battles, grew venerably grey
In her faithful Councils.—Where are they now?
Here are none such. Your Nobles are Strangers
To your Court, your Courtiers Strangers to your Nobles.

K. Scot.
Huntley, to taunt and to revile
Was not the Purport of our Summons; but
To counsel and assist.

Huntley.
Sir, Counsel, void of Freedom,
May flatter and mislead, but never can assist.
Freedom is the Guide, the unerring Guide
To sacred Truth, in a Nation's Council.
The free-born Subject's indisputable Right;
And never suffer'd Prohibition yet,
But from Priests and Tyrants.

K. Scot.
—Sir, to your vast,
High-taught Notions of Freedom we are no
Stranger. Rabble Kerns too, we hear, copy your
Licentious Knowledge; and in rude saucy
Language, dare revile our sacred Person;
Libellously branding our Wisdom, with
French and Priest-rid Weakness.

Huntley.
My Leige, when the Yoke galls,
Nature will wince. Arrests, Imprisonments,
And Confiscations compose your Subjects Dreams,
And break their restless Sleep. We lie down
With Anguish at our State,—and rise despairing
Ever to see it mend; and the Heart-stinging
Prospect that opens to our View, is,
Posterity scourged, by French and Romish
Tyranny.

K. Scot.
O Sir, your distemper'd Fancy frames
Sprites and Goblins, Men of sounder Judgments never see.

Huntley.
Pray Heaven it may be Fancy.—
My Liege, I have fought my Country's Battles
In Sweat and Blood; when every Object
To Eye, and Ear, and Thought, brought certain Death
Into the Mind; the whole a moving Scene
Of busy Fate. And after Battle, I have
Seen the hard-fought, conquer'd Field, strew'd with Death
And Slaughter. There I've beheld our gallant,
Helpless Nobles, breathing out final Groans;
Their active Blood baked and clotted
By scorching Heat, or swallow'd by the greedy
Sun-crack'd Earth. There I beheld Brothers and
Kinsmen stript, and piled on mangled Heaps
Of Slaughter;—Kerns and Thanes promiscuous.
There searching for my dear, my darling, only Son,
I found his well-known, headless Trunk, all gash'd
And mangled,—with his Brains dash'd and scatter'd
'Gainst a blood-stain'd Oak.—Yet these were Sights of Joy
To what I now behold.
I see my Country bleeding in her vital Vein;
I see her Nobles banish'd, imprison'd, and assassin'd;
I see Scotland's Dregs compose her Councils;
All Concerns, sacred, civil, and military,
Sold and huckster'd as in a publick Mart.
I see Majesty—deluded Majesty,
Hem'd in by a Band of crawling Parasites,
Who taint his royal Mind with a King's bluest Plague,
Seditious Jealousie of his best Subjects.
O awake, awake, anointed Sir, and
Be the Father, not the Tyrant of your People.
Ferret from your Court these Rats, who'll undermine
The Roof that shelters them, and leave your Fame
And Country to perish in the Ruins.

Sevez.
Lord Huntley, your ill-manner'd Heat of Temper
Makes you forget the Presence you are in.
The Homage and Respect due to Majesty
You wilfully and audaciously omit.

Hunt.
The Homage and Respect! the envenom'd slander,
And the tell-tale Pick-thanks, you mean, my Lord;
Which taint the purest Loyalty to blackest Treason.

Sevez.
My Lord, your Manners grow foul, and beneath your Rank.

Hunt.
My Priest, your Pride grows insolent,
And above your Rank; and the same Recipe
That discharges the black Stains from your Conscience
Will cleanse my Manners.

Sevez.
Stains from my Conscience, Lord!

Hunt,
Ay Priest, 'twas my Phrase.

Sevez.
My Leige, this Treatment,
In your royal Presence too, is beyond
The Sufferance of wholesome Policy,
And human Nature;—it demands instant
Chastisement.

Hunt.
Chastisement, Priest!

Sevez.
Ay Chastisement, Lord.

K. Scot.
—Huntley,—be calm. Why, how now, Sir,
Have you forgot our Presence?

Hunt.
—No, my Lord—
Bows to to the King, then with a stifled Rage turns to Sevez.
—You are a Priest—in Council,—but no matter—
—'Tis well:—
O Scotland, Scotland, how is thy Spirit broke!
When that a Kern-bred, upstart, Rome-taught Priest
Dares hold a Rod of menaced Chastisement
Over the Minds of free-born Peers.

K. Scot.
Huntley, you grow seditious.

Hunt.
My Liege, Truth will ever be Sedition
While France and Italy direct your Council.

K. Scot.
Sir, my Allies of France and holy Rome
Must not be revil'd by you, or any
Slander-spreading Subject within my Realm.

Sevez.
Pray, my good Lord, if Heart will give you Leave,
Will you inform his Majesty and Council,
In what this out-stretch'd Power of Rome consists.

K. Scot.
Ay, Huntley, let us cooly hear at once,
These arbitrary and oppressive Grievances
In Church and State, and if they appear such,
Our royal Word is 'gaged for the Redress.

Hunt.
Ay, Sir, now you speak like a King,
Whose noblest Office is to hear and to redress.

K. Scot.
Proceed, Sir, in your Grievances, you have free Leave.

Hunt.
Most heartily I thank your Majesty.
Your gracious Boon I will accept.
And in my homely Plainness dreadless use it,
Tho' I were sure this Freedom were my last.
To begin then.—
Free-speaking Parliaments are thrown aside,
As superfluous in our State; and prostitute
Bulls from marketing Rome supply their Place.
The regal Council of the Realm consists—
First of William Sevez, now the Pope's Legate;
A Man, issued from the base perfidious Clan
Of vile Mackgreger. He with religious Guile
And Gallic Craft, infacinates the royal Mind.
The Subject's Lives, their Rights, and Properties,
He grinds and arbitrates with tyrant Will;
And, to pleasure subtle France, misguides our Land
To a perfidious War, in support
Of an Impostor's Title, against our
True Allies, the Faith-observing English.

Sevez.
Dread Sir, this Insult to distress'd Royalty
Is not to be borne

King. Scot.
Let him proceed;
'Tis the last Time he speaks in Scotish Council.

Hunt.
Be it so, my Liege. Then 'tis the last Service
I shall do my Country. But to your Council,
Since it is my last. Right against your Priest
An English Minstrel stands, who tho' at Home
A Vagrant, now gives Vote in Council here;
And, for Scotland's Honour, keeps a Court Auction
For royal Boons, where the highest Bidder
Rises to Preferment.
There are many more of the like Nature
About your Palace; and tho' excellent
In their various Talents, yet there is one
They all unite in, which is—a servile,
Thorough-paced Obedience in Court Measures,
To gall your Subjects, and oppress the Land.

King Scot.
Lord Huntley, ‘Freedom of Speech was your Request;—
‘You had it; and, by my Troth, full freely
‘Hast thou used it. We know to gloss Matters
‘Is not your Use; Plain-dealing, however rude,
‘Is the Mark you aim at:’ You have portraid
A most lively, speaking Picture, of our self,
Our Council, our Religion, and our Laws;
And 'tis but meet such high-colour'd Patriotism
Shou'd be rewarded. Therefore
We here solemnly engage our royal Word
Before our upstart, Rome-directed Council,
To reward your Treasons with immediate Death.

Hunt.
Treason, my Liege!

King Scot.
Ay Treason, frontless Traytor.

Hunt.
My misguided King,—as you love fair Truth,—
For my sacred Master, your dead Father's sake,
Who, in Horrors of the raging Battle,
Proved my Loyalty, do not call me Traytor.
‘The Traitor's Blood is cold, and treacherous;
‘Mine, tho old and dearth, is hot, and loyal.
‘Now indeed it cannot gush as 'twas wont,
‘When lavish'd daringly, in your Defence,
‘And your House's Cause; yet in Scotland's Right
‘It still can trickle, a Sacrifice to your
‘Misguided Vengeance’. Be kind then, sacred Sir,
Take,—Take my old Life, but murder not my Fame.
For a Traitor's Name stabs deeper in a
Loyal Heart than all the Tortures Tyranny
Can invent.

K. Scot.
Sir, for your Time, you may find better Use;
'Tis not of long Duration; employ it
To Advantage. Sir David Bruce, he is your Prisoner;
Convey him to the Castle.

Hunt.
My kind Liege,—
To the virtuous Man, Extent of Life
Is but of small Concern; to me 'tis none.
But how Life is spent ought to be a King's
First Care. For as the Welfare of Millions
Depends on him, his Life demands the strictest
Circumspection. Kingship, is not an Office
Of Rapine, Riot, Tyranny, and Will,
But of Care, Affection, Duty, and Circumscription,
Inviolable to the Subject's Right.
If to remind a Monarch of this Duty,
Be deem'd a Traitor's Office—would to Heav'n
Your Council were all such! 'tis the Treason
For which I wish to live; and if it be the Treason
For which I die, next to the Field of Battle,
In our dear Country's Cause, it is the best,
The noblest Death a free-born Soul can meet.
And now, farewell, whom I honour as my King,
Obey as my Master, rev'rence as my Father,
Love as my Friend, and lastly, to that
Which contains, and is dearer than them all,
A long, long Farewell,—my ruin'd Country.

Huntley led off as to the Castle of Edinburgh.
Sevez.
If your faithful Sevez,
My honour'd King, may presume farther to
Advise, Angus and Daliel both should die.
For Lord Huntley's Death, should they survive it,
Instead of quenching their enkindled Spirits,
Would, like Flames pent up in fuell'd Caverns,
Make them burst forth and blaze with treble Fierceness.
Besides, my Leige,
The Confiscation of their Lands will be
A double Prop to your royal Power.
First, 'twill punish, and deter foul Traitors
Who wou'd lessen, or subvert your royal Sway.
Next, 'twill be a rich Exchequer, to push
The War 'gainst scoffing England; who with Eye,
Contemptful, views Scotland's King as poor and needy.

K. Scot.
And with sarcastic Jest scorn'd our Alliance,
And refused their Daughter; but we'll repay
Their gibing Taunts.
Greedy Ravage shall havock thro' their Land,
Till they atone their Insolence, and accord
Plantagenet's Right!

Sevez.
‘Your Reign, great Sir, to future Kings will be
‘A Document of wisest Policy
‘How to direct a State.

King.
Sevez, give Order
Daliel and Angus suffer with Lord Huntley.

Sevez.
I shall, my Liege,

K. Scot.
We'll now prepare for Richard's Coronation,
Then to England; where we'll affix his Right,
Or in that hostile Land resign our Breath.