Cardinal Beaton A Drama, in Five Acts |
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 | Cardinal Beaton |  |
SCENE III.
—A Room in the Castle.Enter Cardinal Beaton, Principal John Annan, and the Master of Lindsay.
CARDINAL.
The thing's resolved. No chance shall intercept
The fixed resolution of the Church:
Let Lauder word his accusation well,
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Unbashfully with charge on charge confronting
This Gospelizing, meek, reformer-man,
That he may be confounded in his lore,
And into silence and disorder dash'd
Before th'Assembly, that shall sign his doom.—
Master of Lindsay, to your hands is given,
Being head-bailiff of our Priory,
The care and conduct of the execution;
Near to my windows let the spot be chosen,
Whence—
MASTER OF LINDSAY.
O, Lord Card'nal, if no otherwise
The Church can rid her of her enemies
Than by condemning them to die by fire,
I pray thee, let the thing be quietly done
In hollow cellars, damp and chimneyless,
Whence scarce the evidence of smoke can 'scape,
Not in our streets, beside the market-cross;
Where curious multitudes, assembled round,
Catch from the reek, that blows upon their faces,
Contagious heresy, and whisper round
One to another sympathetic words,
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And disaffection to St Peter's chair.
CARDINAL.
No, not in corners and in darksome cells,
As if ashamed for the perpetration,
Shall we, like cravens, shrink to do our duty.
'Tis murder that is done in secret places;
So robbers steal, and so assassins slay:
'Tis for example, and the public good,
That th'authorized gibbet, near the way,
Exhibits to the sun his prey in chains.—
Be the death public as the crime hath been;
As he hath preach'd upon our public ways,
E'en let him perish on his preaching-place,
As murd'rers hang where they have done their job.
Let the fire flare th'infliction that it gives
In the sun's face, and its sky-dimming smoke
Tell to the clouds what cause hath sent it up!
MASTER OF LINDSAY.
Lord Card'nal, when a villain stabs his neighbour,
The public weal, which in the safety lies
Of each particular, requires the death
Of that aggressor, as its safety's pledge;
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Colours and frames imaginary crimes,
Affecting nor men's lives nor their estates,
'Tis idle, then, 'tis barb'rous, 'tis absurd,
To castigate and chase, by torture's force,
Out from the brain, together with the life,
Their prejudices, or their dreams away.
'Tis not a warning then, it is a folly
And barbarism, that forces out compassion!
PRINCIPAL ANNAN.
Sir, 'tis a golden canon of the Church,
Sanction'd by councils, and confirm'd by usage,
That whoso dares th'inexpiable sin
Of poisoning human souls by heresy,
Must pay his life in fire, as forfeit due
To th'Holy Father, and to Christendom.
The law is merciless, and asks her fine.
CARDINAL.
And she shall have it too, my Principal,
Paid to th'exactest grain of flesh and bone,
Despite of sec'lar wrath and sympathy!
MASTER OF LINDSAY.
My Lord, I am a plain unletter'd man,
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I am not dipt in books like learned clerks,
Whose tongues are richly coated and behung
With twice ten thousand saws and sentences.
But I can gather from my simple soul
An untaught rhetoric, to plead the cause
Of this defenceless, wrong'd, God-fearing man.
He has not murder'd on the king's high-way;
He only preach'd against the men that murder:
He has not been the matron's debauchee;
He only preach'd dear purity of life:
He has not purloin'd gold from house or church;
He only preach'd clean-finger'd abstinence:
He is the man whose heart has not devised
The breach of any of God's Ten Commands;
And his bold tongue, that cries and shouts aloud
Against corruption in our very streets,
Commits no violation of that ninth—
Thou shalt not bear false witness 'gainst thy neighbour.
Lord Cardinal, look again to it, I pray;
'Tis wisdom sometimes to be merciful.
CARDINAL.
Hey, my sweet Master! Now thou hast been, sure,
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Thy kinsmen, and the pedagogues of treason!—
We must be lectur'd by you, and submit
Our souls, forsooth, unto thy tutorage!—
Lindsay—my Master, Lindsay—have to-morrow
Your bonfire lighted opposite my gate;
For we must celebrate with merry blaze
St Peter's triumph o'er the Lutheran.—
Dear Annan, see that in the Priory
All seemly preparations may be made—
Enter Dishington, Captain of the Castle.
DISHINGTON.
My Lord, a messenger hath, at the gate,
Handed me this seal'd packet for your Grace.
[Gives the Letter, and exit.
CARDINAL.
[Opens, and begins to read.]
—Sirs, with your leave—Sweet sirs, I give you leave—
Good night, we've much to think on ere to-morrow.—
[Exeunt Annan and Master of Lind.
Now, here's a scroll of pure impertinence,
Cramm'd with hot buzzing words from end to end—
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All on a flash, like usquebaugh on fire!—
Now, thou'rt a lad of promise; and full soon
The small thin bonnet of the Earl of Rothes
Will rive to greatness on thy doughtier head!—
A dagger too!—What raves the silly boy
About a dagger? Hath he been to steal
His tailor's bodkin to let out my life?—
(He reads the Letter.)
“Sir, I beg leave to tell you, that I know
Your many mischievous and damned plots
Against the state, and me, and honest men;
And I forewarn you, like an honest man,
That, if your wicked plots are not forborne,
My dagger shall be drawn, and in my hand
Shall rest dissatisfied, till it shall rid
Me and my country of a foe and villain.”—
A pithy scribble this, and to the point!—
Then I must put my Card'nal's hat aside,
And buy a head-piece from the brazier,
To save my temples from the killing dints
Of this fierce Sheriff, and his gang of squires!—
Come on, my son of Rothes! I am ready
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And give it breakfast in its master's blood!—
So, so!—how proudly perkest thou, O son
Of John of Rothes, in thy sheriffdom!
Faith, thou'rt a pretty serpent; and thy head
Towers high, and glistens o'er thy other bulk,
That coils and crawls quite useless on the ground.
Thy tongue is forked, too, and spitteth out
Large venom, whereby quiet men grow mad.—
I'll bruise thee yet, my basilisk! I'll squeeze
Even into clotted dirt thy glancing crown!—
Then, for your Lairds, that huddle round you thick,
Like newts and lizards round th'arch-cockatrice,
One handful poison, thrown into their hole,
Will make them puke and spawl themselves to death.—
Courage, Lord Cardinal! the Church's weight
Is with thee; and thy titles are the hinge
Whereon the state's huge folding-door revolves.
Enter Dishington, Captain of the Castle.
DISHINGTON.
My Lord, a damsel at the castle gate,
Of decent garb, and honourable presence.
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Alleging special and important business.
CARDINAL.
Captain, I think thou knowest that my gate
Drops all its bars before the gentle tap
Of a sweet girl?—Admit the suppliant.
[Exit Dishington.
The night o'erflows with business; every moment
Spawns a new incident of some account.—
Re-enter Dishington, with Beatrice Strang.
DISHINGTON.
My Lord, here is the damsel that has long
Besieged, beseechingly, your castle gate.
[Exit Dishington.
CARDINAL.
Good e'en, my pretty maiden!—I rejoice
To see the tapers of your glancing eyes
Illume my room!—'Tis ever so with me.
I would not give, for light of sun or moon,
The merry splendour of a lady's eye:
Young Cupid rides upon it to my heart,
And whips me mad with burning fantasy!
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Oh, my Lord Cardinal, forbear on me
Words that belong not to the piteous state
Of a poor, down-cast, melancholy maid.
Alas! I come not in the idle mood
Of one, who hangs her showy colours out
To lead men's captivated eyes away.
Tears crowd my eyes too full to suffer them
To wander vagabond in glances, such
As May-day maids wont merrily to make.
Once I was joyful on a May-day too;
When the sun shone upon me as I led,
In dance, my flow'ry-kirtled playfellows:
Now I am weary-woeful; and the sun,
That calls my comrades to their annual mirth,
Shines only sorrow to my changed heart.—
Oh, good my Lord, thou art the man, whose word
Can make the sun shine sweet on me again,
And bless one mourning family with joy.
CARDINAL.
Marry, my maid, thou art importunate,
And full of circuits and of roundabouts,—
Prithee, wind up in brief your small affair.
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Here, on my knees, my Lord, I do entreat
And conjure thee, with nature's loudest voice,
By the afflictions of a forlorn spouse!
By a dear daughter's ever-truest love!
By tears of children, weeping woefully!
By all the loving-kindness which our God
Hath bound up in the noble human heart!
By your own greatness, noble Cardinal!
Give, give, to daughter, spouse, and family,
Him whom thy dungeons, for a thing of nought,
A bauble of scarce punishable fault,
Hold, barr'd in darkness from the light of life!—
Thou know'st my father!—
CARDINAL.
Strang?—I know the man,
Who wafted o'er, in his unholy ship,
A cursed cargo of soul-damning books,
And scatter'd them, as pedlars do their ballads,
Among the people; tainting every finger,
That rambled 'mid th'obnoxious, sinful leaves,
With vice more hideous than the green-eyed plague!—
I know him well; he does his penance here,
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His soul will soon be rinsed pure and clean
From its contamination, as I hope.
Thou would'st not pluck him out, my girl, before
His purifying term is at an end?
Marry, it would not do; he'd soon grow foul
Again, with rust and sinful verdigrease,
E'en like some half-scour'd utensil of brass.—
Fie, speak not on't!—
BEATRICE.
Oh, I will speak of it,
For I can speak of nothing else but it;
And I must speak and wail aloud for it.—
My Lord, thy greatness, as an eagle, should
Soar high, and challenge the world-warming sun;
Not stoop, and lower its sky-climbing flight
To the low range of unambitious birds,
Fastening degradingly its royal claws
On little, lowly, and ambiguous prey.
The mighty are before thee; choose them out,
And ravish glory from that nobler chase;
But leave to silence, peace, and happiness,
The mean obscurities of weaker men.
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Fie, wench!—Am I not, then, to snap the fly,
That rounds my temples with eternal plague,
Because, forsooth, it is a thing ignoble
To crush in death such paltry persecution?—
A man of power, my lady, has two hands
To use in battle with his adversaries:
His right hand grapples stiffly with the proud;
His left serves wondrous well to sweep away
The cobwebs of destruction, woven about him
By the small cunning of his spider-foes.
BEATRICE.
A man of power, my Lord, is like the wind
Of Heaven, that smites, in its nobility,
Obstinate towers, that do confront its rage,
And splits the trunks of sky-defying oaks;
But o'er the pliant grove of bulrushes
Rides without harm, and sings upon the reeds.
CARDINAL.
Vex me no more with such importunacy!—
BEATRICE.
If then my lord declines this quest of mine,
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O suffer me at least (this sure is nothing)
To tend him in his house of melancholy,
With all a daughter's tenderness and care.
Grant me the small poor boon to visit oft
His loneliness, that I may solace him
With ministrations as a daughter should.
His durance-term will thence be not abridged;
Its rigour only may be mitigated.
CARDINAL.
Marry, my maiden, that would still be worse;
The beauty of a penance lies not more
In its term's length, than sweet severity.
Has he not got a turnkey to rub down
And feed him tenderly and faithfully?
One who too well the dungeon's duties knows
To cheat him of his corn or curry-comb?
Knew I the tender-hearted dog play'd false,
By over-dosing or in sap or solid,
I'd pack him off to live with Harry Eighth,
And send a ship to Barbary for a better!
Then speak not on't—'tis quite unmannerly.
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My lord, if for thy purple's honour, and
The nobleness that decorates thine office,
Thou wilt not yield thee to my gentle prayers,
O, by the mercy that adorns the name
Of Christian, as its richest rarest jewel—
CARDINAL.
Tush, tush, my miss! I think thou'rt too well read
In christian catechisms, and such like books;
Instead of spinning nightly by the fire,
And darning stockings for your grandmother,
Thou hast been spelling Davie Lindsay's plays,
And singing godly ballads to your father!
I fear, I fear, thou'rt in for heresy.—
(aside ...)
Faith she's a handsome heretic, however;
I like her, and her pretty pouting mouth,
That for her father chirps so charmingly:
By'r Lady! I do think the plaguy quean
Would warm a Card'nal's bed luxuriously. (... aside)
[To Beatrice.
Marry, my sweet! I do impeach you here
Of stealing boldly, in my very house;
Thou hast out-pluck'd and pocketed somewhere,
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I cannot live without it—I must search
And catch it, if I can, my pretty thief;
I'll have it, here—
[Kisses her.
BEATRICE.
Lord Cardinal, my lord!
Toyest thou thus thy dignities away?
CARDINAL.
My child, when lily-bosom'd things like thee
Creep into churchmen's chambers, that they may
Confess their sins, or proffer supplications,
'Tis understood in every Christian land,
That to the Confessor or Holy Priest,
(As the wave-breast to Jewish Aaron fell,)
Fall the first fruits, as to his office due,
Of maidenly and blushing innocence.
Nay, do not wince, my dear—there is no stain
Where church absolves; the layman's damning sin
Shines out a lustre on a churchman's soul;
Thou'lt be true gainer by th'imagined loss;
If then thou wishest to thy suit success—
If thou wouldst see my dungeon ope its jaws,
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Grant me thyself—
BEATRICE.
Hence! avaunt, seducer!
In thine own chamber, out on thee, I say,
Thou man of stony, corrupt, lustful heart!
Stand thou aloof, O sinner, lest I blast
Thee with my virgin looks of chastity—
Alas, I'm but an idle suppliant here!
I will go home and comfort my poor mother,
And say with her my better prayers to Him
Who hears the widow's and the orphan's cry:—
Alas, for thee, my father!
[Rushes out.
CARDINAL.
Go your ways,
Thou pert, proud daughter of a heretic:—
Why, how the minx turn'd up her saintly nose
Against the kisses of my Card'nalship,
As if her lips were far too rich to give
Their dew to any but a Wickliffite!
Now, she'll go gadding all the city round
A carry-tale, venting in every nook
Where giggling gossips and old women meet,
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With greater gust their good sack-posset drinks,
That their old lungs shall rive and gasp with laughter
At Card'nal's fumbling for a vanish'd kiss.
By'r lady! she'll not croak against me long;
I'll have her dish'd, and all her family,
Dish'd in one platter for Destruction's teeth
To champ and make a meal of.—
Hang her! nay, hang her father, let him dance
Th'aerial jig for this indignity.
Fie, fie upon it all—Card'nal, thou think'st
Too much of this—'tis but a sorry thing;
'Tis nothing.—
Thine enemies require thy care and caution;
This Norman Lesslie—take good heed of him,
He is a mad young devil at his best;
His dagger sticks into my memory;—
Enter Mrs Marion Ogilvie.
CARDINAL continues.
Salve Regina, sweet my queen, all hail!
Salve Regina cordis mei, hail!
I have been thinking much of thee, my Marion,
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Of nightly solace, and sweet recreation
From molestation of rough day-light rubs.
MRS MARION.
O my dear lord, thy aspect and demeanour
Shews as if some sharp viper of vexation
Were biting at the bottom of thy soul.
What is the matter? Let me know it all;
Ere now thou hast imparted unto me
Thy cares, thy joys, thy hopes, and thy ambition;
And I have heighten'd all thy taste of good,
And I have mellow'd all thy taste of bad,
By correspondent harmony of soul.
Lord Card'nal, what is it?—
CARDINAL.
It is a nothing,
A shadow of vexation crossing o'er
My shining sun of happiness. What's the news
Abroad? Amid this tumult of the city,
This confluence of folks and crowding in,
What talk is blazed abroad, and wherewithal
Are the rude mouths of the mobility
Amused in their voracity for tales?
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The talk, my lord, is loud and dissonant,
And full of boisterous and surly threats,
Portending to the land convulsion:
Faction is at her busiest, and disjoins
Fam'ly from family, and friend from friend:
Hearts, that have long been kindly knit as one,
Now split into hostilities, and stand
Vindictively and savagely aloof,
Praying not only in this world red curses,
But exquisite damnation in the next.
Religion's poison'd; and she walks about,
Not in the bloom of apostolic beauty,
Winning poor sinners into happiness,
As when she charm'd St Peter and St John;
But bloated with distemp'rature: her face
Ugly with passion, and bespotted foul
With the green fest'ring boils of heresy,
The dagger of damnation in her hand.—
CARDINAL.
A dagger in his hand! Pray, who has seen him?
Is he in town? I have not heard of him—
Are my gates barr'd?—
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You dream, my dear, dear lord,
Your mind is swallow'd up, and all entranced
By some besetting fancy, that has wrought
Itself into dominion of the brain;
Rouse thee, my lord; 'tis supper-time; we'll go
To supper—
CARDINAL.
I'll not stir an inch for him—
Have I not with me all the house of Guise?
Is not hot Huntly ready at my word
Out from the north to rush like its own whirlwind,
And sweep into the toils, that I have laid,
Him and his troop? Huntly shall hunt them in;
I'll be the slayer—I'll make ven'son of them;
Falkland's a royal palace—hath a park—
The game is all mine own—
Ha, ha! my brain is reeling—Pardon, sweet,
This ecstacy of spirits—I am wont,
Of late, thou knowest, thus to wander oft;
I'm so turmoil'd with secular concerns—
Let's go, my love—But do not speak a word
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In that small word.
MRS MARION.
To supper then, my lord,
Dean Annan is awaiting us within.
[Exeunt.
| Cardinal Beaton | |