 | Cardinal Beaton |  |
ACT IV.
SCENE I.
—Inside of the Great Cathedral of St Andrews.In one part, Cardinal Beaton, Archbishop Dunbar, Principal Annan, Dr John Arbuckle, and the other Official Persons of the Convocation, seated, with Wishart's accuser, John Lauder; and in front of them, Wishart, Sir David Lindsay, Duncan of Airdrie, with Wishart's other Friends, and Auditors of the People.
CARDINAL,
(rising).
This honour'd diet of the Holy Church
Being now conven'd in form, and fenced in
With all required observances of statute,
The accuser, who has voluntarily chosen
That task, may now arise and do his duty.
(rising).
George Wishart, I do here, in Church's name,
Arraign thee for the crime of heresy.—
Thou, trait'rous pestilential runagate!
Hast dared, in public places, to lift up
Thy voice against our supreme Holy Father,
Saying, His power is founded on a cheat,
On sand of falsehood, not on rock of truth,
And that thou art a priest as good as he:—
Thou hast avow'd, and from thy wicked mouth
Blown it most impudently among the people,
That Purgatory's penance is a fib,
Priest-forged, unscriptural, unreasonable,
Devised by cunning men, whereby t'extort
This world's good gold from terrified weak sinners:—
Thou hast maintain'd, and boasted to the sun,
That Mass is but a mumbling mummery;
And that the robed officiating priest
Is but an ape, drest up in foolery,
And playing antics to amuse the devil:—
Thou hast advised sin-burthen'd men to make
Confession, not to priests, but God alone:—
Thou hast expunged and blotted out at once
Thou hast declared the eucharistic cake
To be but as the baker's vulgar bread,
And, therefore, undeserving to be worshipp'd:—
Thou hast declared to the mean rabble's ears,
That holy water is but as the wash
Wherein the sordid pig luxuriates:—
Thou hast permitted lustful man to eat,
Contrarious to all sage decrees of councils,
Good flesh of kine each Friday of the week:—
Thou hast enjoin'd the rabble to reserve
Their prayers to God alone, and disregard
His saints; as if they were not throned in Heaven,
But only stuck in niches here on earth:—
Thou hast inveigh'd 'gainst the flesh-curbing vows
Of spotless friars, monks, and priests, and nuns;
Saying, 'tis lawful for such stainless ones
To carnalize according to this world:—
Lastly, thou hast contemn'd and vilified
All councils of the Church, and their decrees;
And, in averring thou would'st not obey,
Hast preach'd the people into disobedience:—
These are the charges, bloated heretic!
And crave, for the behoof of injured Church,
That punishment which is thy proper meed.—
Answer these charges, traitor, if thou can'st.
WISHART.
Accuser, I, with God to friend, appeal
From this convention, where I sitting see
Men who have hired assassins 'gainst my life,
And let them loose against me in the streets.
I do appeal from such prejudging men
To equal judges—my Lord Governor,
And all the Scottish temporal estate—
Let these, and God's good word, decide my cause.
LAUDER.
Hark ye, my lords and doctors, what he says?—
False heretic! has not Lord Cardinal
Enough of dignity and power august
Heapt on his radiant person, to entitle
And qualify him here to sit as judge
In this tribunal, soiling, as he does,
His noble ear with thy contemptuous words?—
Sir, is he not Lord Chancellor of Scotland?
Is he not Lord Archbishop of St Andrews?
The Commendator of Arbroath's good Abbey?
The Pope's Legatus Natus et a Latere?—
Are all these titles not enow for thee?
PRINCIPAL ANNAN.
Mark, how the traitor has already shown
The spirit of rebellion lodged within him,
By kicking proudly 'gainst authorities:
His words already damn him to the fire;
Recite his sentence, 'tis too long delay'd.
ARCHBISHOP DUNBAR.
Lord Cardinal, I advise to read again
His counts of accusation, one by one;
That, to the auditors, he may not seem
Injuriously or hastily condemn'd;—
A charge that otherwise we shall not 'scape.
CARDINAL.
Accuser, read again his articles.
LAUDER.
Thou, trait'rous, pestilential runagate!
Hast dared in public places to lift up
Thy voice against our supreme Holy Father;
Saying, his power is founded on a cheat,
And that thou art a priest as good as he.
WISHART.
I have taught nothing but the Sacred Word:
There have I read, that every holy man,
That understands and feels the Spirit's power,
Is made a king and priest unto his God;
Serving him every day rejoicingly
Within the quiet temple of his heart.
I have read nought of Holy Father Paul;
And of the fancied power to bind or loose,
Assumed by ignorant time-serving men,
And blindly used, according as they list:
Such have no warrant or to bind or loose;
They want the instrument, the sacred word.
LAUDER.
Hear how the bloated heretic blasphemes!
DR JOHN ARBUCKLE.
The spirit of the devil is within him;
Nay, he has Legion housed within his head,
Enriching all his tongue with blasphemies.
We sin in list'ning to his loathsome words;
Read him his second count—have done with him.
Thou hast avow'd, and from thy wicked mouth
Blown it most impudently among the people,
That purgatory's penance is a fib,
Priest-forged, unscriptural, unreasonable,
Devised by cunning men, whereby t'extort
This world's good gold from terrified poor sinners.
WISHART.
I have taught nothing but the sacred word;
And I have search'd its every nook to find
On the pure leaves the name of purgatory.
There I have never found it—If 'tis there,
Turn up the leaf, and read the text aloud;
Then I'll believe it, and will preach of it.
LAUDER.
O heretic, how fraudulent thy tongue!
DR ARBUCKLE.
Thou fool, thou hast been far too conversant
With mystic books, that do mislead weak men
Into fantastical, upsetting thoughts:
Hadst thou but thumb'd thy Virgil half as much
As Luther's mis-translated Testaments,
Thou mightst have known how Rome's transcendent bard,
Utter'd in sounding Latin his belief
Of purgatory and a middle state,
Where sin-black souls are bleached white for heaven:
'Tis Æneid fifth or sixth—I think the fifth.
SIR D. LINDSAY,
(aside).
Shame, shame to learning and to college-cowls!
CARDINAL.
What need we more? the man's sin-tainted mouth
Condemns his carcase to the punishment:—
Hear then thy sentence, man of blasphemy!
Thou shalt be taken hence again to prison;
There thou shalt be allow'd six hours to put
Thy dead-clothes on, and fit thy soul for death;
For, on the seventh, the executioner
Shall drag thee from thy dungeon to the stake,
Whereto thy body chain'd, shall expiate
In fiery tortures thy foul spirit's stains:
Go then! and may thy latter hours be peace,
Such peace, at least, as heretics may find!
WISHART,
(kneeling).
O Thou, by whose permissive providence
Thy servants suffer wrong for thy name's sake,
Forgive the men, that in their ignorance
As I forgive them, O do thou forgive them!
SIR D. LINDSAY,
(stepping forward).
My Lords and Doctors, ere this good man go,
I come before your faces, in the face
Of this assembled conscious multitude,
Within these walls, which our forefathers built
For this alone, that gospel-gentleness
Might hence, as from a centre, circulate,
And radiate salvation round the land;
Before this altar of the living God,
Which stands unveil'd t'upbraid and to confound
His mercy-slighting ministers with shame,
I come for this good man, and for myself,
And for the world, and for posterity,
And for the honour of that purest faith,
Wherewith the God of truth hath bless'd the world,
To make my protestation solemnly
Against the verdict of this rev'rend Court,
As being most iniquitous and cruel,
Most persecuting in its origin,
Pernicious in example and effect,
In execution savagely unchristian,
To God and man alike dishonourable.
Look ye to heaven, my Lords,—behold, the throne
Of God is compass'd ever by the steps
Of sweet-eyed Mercy, in her cherub dance;
But Cruelty is ever found on earth,
Chain'd, with her burning tortures in her hand,
To thrones of tyrants and usurping kings!
CARDINAL,
(rising and interrupting him).
We cannot hear you, sir—the diet's closed:
Heresy, heresy, all smells of heresy;
I have it in my nostrils here like brimstone;
We'll all be chok'd, unless we go forthwith.—
Macers, apparitors, clear the Court—away—
Let's off, i'God's name, I am sick of it.—
SIR D. LINDSAY.
Then be this good man's blood upon your head!
[Wishart is led away by pursuivants. The Court breaks up, and disperses in confusion and uproar.
SCENE II.
—A Room in the Castle.Enter Cardinal and Balfour.
CARDINAL.
What of my other bus'ness now, Balfour?
The door is shut—no ears lurk in these walls
To swallow up our conversation:
Come, thou'rt my precious man, my internuncio,
My confidant, my true Achitophel,
My second heart, so rich of shrewd device,
My maker-up of dead kings' testaments,
My cream of Priesthood, my most saintly cheat,
What tidings, man? what deep dark things are hid
Beneath the sober curtain of thy face?
Prithee, unmask, my dear mysterious Harry!
BALFOUR,
(looking round).
Are the coasts clear, my lord, of human ear?
Is't certain that your key-hole may not prove
An ear-trump, to betray us and our words
To some insidious menial cowr'd behind?
CARDINAL.
Tush, man! my house has not an echo in it;
As is th'impressive ocean to the moon;
Out with it all—does Falkland Palace stand?
Or has the wind blown Queen and it away?
BALFOUR.
My lord, my lord, things brighten in the west;
There's hope—our church's sun is rising there
Mirac'lously, and will shine eastering on,
To quench and quell these Lutheran Will-o'-Wisps.
CARDINAL.
Sweet Harry, I grow merry at your news;
Therefore, now break your gen'ral answer down
Into minute and sweet particulars;
Mince it to charming crumbs of nice detail,
For I am mad to snap it every bit.
How look'd on you my good Queen-dowager,
When to her fair hands, and her gracious ears,
You gave my letter and my secret message?
BALFOUR.
No sooner, my Lord Cardinal, did I reach
The palace-gate, and to the Queen my name,
With your auspicious packet, was convey'd,
Than to her presence I was bid ascend.
Eating with greedy eyes your penmanship;
At once her voice broke out a peal of welcome,
How is Lord Cardinal? I am glad to see you
Fresh come from one I hold in such esteem:
He is the most trust-worthy man in Scotland;
Out of mine own dear France there's none like him.
And she read on the while, and all the while
Complacency stood mantling on her visage,
And, So I see, she said, you're to have soon
A bonfire in your eastern nook of Fife:
I wish to God I was along with you,
To warm my chilly spirit at its heat.
For this your Falkland's but a frozen place!
Once they did mock me too, these dogs of Fife,
What day I landed at Balcomie-house;
They busk'd me up an heretic of straw,
A thing combustible of clouts and paint,
Clept Captain Borthwick, from its mimicry.
This setting fire to, they did fob me off,
Crying, See Captain Borthwick, how he roasts!
And to be sure the pseudo-man flash'd off
At once into a pyramid of fire,
But I'd fain see a substance, not a show,
A good solidity of bones and flesh,
Staked up, as I have seen in France, amid
The luscious torments of a good slow fire.
These lairds of Fife have aye been mocking me,
But Cardinal and I ere long, for this
Shall have them lustily upon the hip.
CARDINAL.
Well spoken, faith, and worthy of the Guise!
BALFOUR.
And then she cast a glance around the room,
To see if all her maidens were aloof,
And spoke most whisp'ringly, scarce audible,
Of Monday's plot; and how the taking off
Of these Guise-grudging Luther-liking squires,
Was as the very marrow to her bones.
She had perused your list, and liked it well:
“'Twas written,” said she, “with a master's pen;
The flower of Scotland's heresy was in it.
Then for dear Monsieur Lorgê, fear him not;
He is my falcon; I will twitch him to me,
By the long jesses wound about his legs,
And Huntly would be down, (provided that
His load of lard would suffer him to march,)
Waddling in fiery zeal, and back'd and flank'd
By half the sturdy Papists of the North.
These two will quite suffice, methinks, t'oppress,
Hand-cuff, or fetter, all the squires of Fife.
Only, be sure, let Cardinal be here
On Sunday eve at farthest, that he may
Digest the execution all himself:
It rests upon his shoulders; he must bear
The burthen of the doing, as the name
And shrewd invention all remains his own.”
CARDINAL.
Excellent lady!—I'll take all the doing,
But halve with her the glory of th'exploit.
BALFOUR.
And when her story was all whisper'd out,
She put this golden ring into my hand,
And said, “Give this poor token to my lord,
It will convince him of my faithfulness.”
CARDINAL.
Excellent pledge! I'll wear it near my heart,
Well, Sunday morn will give me wings to fly,
Not to the church to mumble matins o'er,
And beg for mercy on my adversaries,
But to the Guise's chamber; there to don
The sec'lar sword, wherewith to smite them all,
And send them huddling down to Charon's boat.—
Harry, thou hast achieved this business well;
Thou hast relieved me—I'll reward thee for it.
I'll have thee dignified one day for this:
When that old coughing Lollard, Cranston, 's housed
In's earthy mother's lap, I'll have thee perch'd
High on St Mary's summit. There thou'lt tower
In sunny bright prosperity.—Meanwhile,
Sweet Harry, be contented with this handful.
[Giving him gold.
'Tis a small guerdon; but 'twill keep thy heart
Bedded in wine and viands, till, perhaps,
That hiccupping old Lutheran be gone.
BALFOUR.
I thank you, my good lord; and if your needs
Require again my faithful services,
In tongue, or foot, or hand, in this good work,
For ever prompt and expedite for action.
CARDINAL.
Thou art a worthy fellow, I can trust thee.
Thy heart is as a grave to keep a secret;
Therefore I need not charge thee to be still.
BALFOUR.
The grave, my lord, shall gasp her dead men out
To open air, ere my loose tongue let out
What's twined in coils of secrecy within.
[Exit Balfour.
CARDINAL.
Now I am somewhat solaced. This good news,
Assuring me of all my plans matured,
And swoln e'en to the bursting, hath blown off
The heavy, dark, inexplicable damp,
That at times hover'd strangely o'er my heart.
My spirit's atmosphere is now more clear;
Though here and there bespotted somewhat yet
With specks of gloom, prognostics of no storm.
For that young bully's dagger—I do slight it;
'Tis but a scribbling threat, a thrust on paper
With a pen's point, a formidable nothing.—
I'll play the Oriental; I will loll:—
Ho, chamberlain!—
Enter Chamberlain.
Go, sir, the windows of the western room
Over the gate, o'erlay with softest stuffs.
Unchest those cushions, fretted rough with gold,
Whereon, in church, I kneel at festivals:
Unroll thy carpets and thy velvet bolsters;
Give them an airing on the window-sill;
Spread them out thick, and rich, and soft as roses,
That I may lean and wallow there at ease,
Elbowing my arms amid the golden tufts,
As, through my eyes, my soul luxuriates
Amid the torments of the heretic.
The prelates shall be with me; make good room
Also for them: and bolster every window
That looks out on the spectacle of fire.
Panter is fat, and will require to be,
Ere he can suck in any joy at all,
Well pillow'd on some flock or feather-bed,
To save his belly grating on the stone.—
Gallops fast onward to the burning hour;
And we must taste this bit of entertainment
Far otherwise than on the Castle-hill,
Where men stand looking on their weary shanks.
CHAMBERLAIN.
My lord, the windows shall be strew'd anon,
As you direct, with all our prime of stuffs.
[Exit Chamberlain.
CARDINAL.
Then, when the fire-work's ended, and our eyes
Have suck'd their fill of golden satisfaction,
We must give belly, too, his share of cheer,
And not defraud it on this festival.
Now, that so many crosiers are met
Within my palace's precincts, they must,
Ev'n for the honour of a Cardinal's kitchen,
Have fare befitting. I'll step down myself
And see my cooks; a master's eye, I trow,
Makes a fat dinner, as it makes fat horse!
[Exit.
SCENE III.
—The Pends near the Cathedral.Enter Tenants of Drumrawk, Blacklaws, and Gordonsha, &c. armed with coulters, plough-handles, flails, and other rustic armature.
DRUMRAWK.
Here's a caller place, let's stand here—mair-by-token,
there's a dainty black shower maskin' i'the south yonder;
here we'll be weel skougit.
BLACKLAWS.
A bra place this for a skoug—siccan a gousty lump o'
black pended stanewark's no in a'Crail parish! But the
shower'll do mickle guid to the beer-seed.—It's been a sair
drowth this three weeks.
GORDONSHA.
We'll hae a thud o'thunner wi' a guid plout o'weet, I
houp—I hear't thumpin awa already i'the south-west yonder.
Come in than, callants, and hae your armour ready
for a'kinkind o'necessary duty.
But now, syn we're a'forgathert, what the de'il are we
to be about? Here hae we travelt up to this town, what
wi' wingling flails, and couters, and barrowtrams, an' cudwuddies,
nae little forjeskit; and whom are we to flay or
fell? Is't the rascally Cardinal himsel? Or is't to be daft
Johnnie Tottis, the drunken friar body, that comes daidlin'
down to the coast after drams and wenches? Fient
haet do I ken about it!
BLACKLAWS.
Hoot, toot, man! it's no to slay, but to save life, we're
a'here i'thae black ill-lookin' pends the day. That discreet
man Maister Wishart is een to gang a-low this blessed
day, if we dinna stop it. Thae wicket bishops, wi'
their tippets, and their rockets, and their whistles, an'
ither whigmaleeries—the sorrow tak them, it's a'their
wark! There's no ae true bishop at this moment, Drumrawk,
in a'Scotland.
GORDONSHA.
An' hasna been syn auld Peter Graham's time.
BLACKLAWS.
Peter Graham? wha's that?
Peter was a douce devout auld carl; an' for that, King
Jamie clappit him into Lochleven Castle, where he rottit
awa into a corp, honest man; I've heard auld Grannie
speak o'him. She aye grat when she spoke about him.
But now, when there's naething but lewdness and deboshery
i'the kirk, see how they're thrivin' the hail pack
o'them. See here to your blackguard Cardinal; he's a
house like a palace.
DRUMRAWK.
Weel I wot, that's true; my Lord Anster's and my
Lord Kelly's are but cotter-houses aside it.
GORDONSHA.
Awa' wi' their grandeur, an' their dirt o'frocks, an' tippets,
an' natural weanies! I wadnae gie ae reishlin sermon
o'gude John Rough, or Maister Wishart, for a haill year's
pitter-patterin' o'their Latin creeds and prayers, and ither
raible o'nonsense.
BLACKLAWS.
What ken we about Latin words? I wad rather hear
my bonnie bawsant cow routin' at the back o'Airdrie wood.
She'll rout as gude Latin as ony ane o'them, for aught I
ken about it.
Commend me to a gude screed o'braid Scotch; I wadnae
gie a pint-stoupfu' o'our plain auld mither tongue for
a chawder o'the biggest Latin words to be found in ony
dictionary in a'the warld. I'm a man for short words and
pithy, no for lang words an' silly.
GORDONSHA.
An' for that ye're nae friends wi' the vicar, Drumrawk?
DRUMRAWK.
He freathes and fozes ower mickle at the mou' for me;
the head's aye dry whare the mou's fozy. Nane o'your
Deninno vicars for me! gie me Sandy Seton or Johnnie
Rough
BLACKLAWS.
Ye'll mind the halesome screed we gat frae Johnnie i'
Crail pupit this time twalmonth?
DRUMRAWK.
Ay, weel do I mind that.—He made the twa gavil ends
o'thair auld kirk to dinnel like a drum wi' the screigh o'
his voice.—I could never look on a bishop's frock, or a
friar's bald crown, wi' ony patience sinsyne.
GORDONSHA.
The sorrow tak their frocks an' their crowns! I'm aye
proud bishop, or a drucken friar, to be fell'd this day, I
houp I'll be in at the death, at least wi' ae lounder.
DRUMRAWK.
But what the plague's keeping the lairds sae lang? They
promised to be wi' us at twal, an' thare's nae sight o'them
yet.
BLACKLAWS.
They'll be consultin' thegither about the rescue, nae
doubt, an' be mickle fash't how to gang about it.
GORDONSHA.
There'll be some stramash, I houp. I'm no a man 'at
wald put on my armour, an' come up sae far for nocht. An'
I but ance tak up a chappin-stick, I'd fain knap a crown
wi't,—mair especially a rotten Papist's.
DRUMRAWK.
I'm nae for fechtin', if I can avoud it; but for wranglin'
wi' words I'm the man; I'll flinch for naebody; no for
Johnnie Tottis, i'the stream-tide o'his druckenness, or
the hairum-scairum dominie o'Crail, i'the very heighest
pinnacle o'his nonsensical eloquence. I'm a man for words,
no for bluid: but an' if the laird bids me fecht, I maun e'en
wad like to keep.
BLACKLAWS.
Our laird's a gude gentleman, he'll no bid's do what's
wrang.
GORDONSHA.
Ay, ay, e'en to the thrashin' o'a prelate's banes wi' our
flingin'-trees. He can easily produce his Bible warrant
for that.—But here comes my Laird o'Carnbee, as gude a
man as i'the haill shire.
Enter Melvil of Carnbee.
MELVIL.
Good friends, I charge thee, keep together here,
Group'd and embodied in one faithful cluster,
Beneath this vaulted caravanserai.
The heavens seem sympathizing with the earth,
Boding some battle in the elements,
As in the minds of men some conflict near.
Here linger ye a space, and husband well
Your strength, letting your rustic weapons hang
Suspended in inaction, till we see
Of bringing off our much-beloved friend
Shall justify our armed interference,
And clear it from all vile disparagement
Of folly, and audacity's wild name.
The fatal hour fast hastens; I'll go see
The preparations and the goings-on:
I will return anon, if need require,
And lead you forward to your field of action.
Meanwhile, be steady, friends, and fortify
Your breasts with noble resolution.
[Exit Melvil.
GORDONSHA.
Steady, laird? I'se be as steady as the Isle o'May rock
in a gale o'east wind; nae man shall wrastle this flingin'-tree
out o'my hands. Let our faes only come on, I'se
smash haill dozens o'them; regents, doctors, bishops, cardinals,
—a'the deevil's regiment o'Papistical gentry thegither!
—I'se shake them! I'se pelt them! I'se powther
the lift wi' their wigs! I'se drive baith the pridefu' snaw
an' the vermin aff them.—But, haud, haud; wha the deil's
this?—
—What squad's this?—Here's a bang o'shavelin' vagabonds
for you!—Let's stand back, callants; let's listen.
[They retreat a little as the Friars are passing.
FIRST FRIAR.
An' whan does this burnin'-match begin? I houp we'll
be in gude time; it would be a sair disappountment gin it
were gane by. We've haen a lang tramp frae Dunfarmlin,
for the very purpose.
SECOND FRIAR.
A quarter after twa it begins preceesely. The heretic-man
(ill be his fa'!) comes out o'his dungeon at twa, dressed
in a'his black ingle-gear, gunpowther pokes hingin'
afore an' ahint him, like sae mony meal-wallets round an
auld beggar. It 'ill mak a braw pluff a'thae fine squibs
o'powther.
THIRD FRIAR.
I'm fidgin' fain to hae a peep o't. I've seen but ae burnin'-bout,
an' that was year thretty-aught, whan Robert
Forrester, an' the bauld Vicar o'Dollar, forbye three mair,
were a'brander'd to dead on the Castlehill o'Embrough.
A grand sacrifeese o'human flesh it was that day! a hecatomb
The bauld Vicar, being a buirdly man, made a braw
low; he bleezed an' bizz'd awa like a gude fat fresh herrin'!
FIRST FRIAR.
Mony ane I've seen. I mak a pount to be an e'e-witness
o'ilka business o'that sort; it's sae satisfactory to see
a heretic set down in his ain element, whilk is, forsooth,
the fire.—I saw Pate Hamilton burn down bonnily into
white aizles, year twenty-seven. Mickle firewood an' powther
it cost the kintra to get rid o'him; he was an unco
dour heretic to burn. I saw David Straiton, the laird o'
Randerston, roastit wi' the timmer o'his ain curst fishboat,
wharewi' he gaed a fishin' to the Auld Haiks, and
catched mony a caller codlin an' gude haddock. The impudent
wratch! de'il a single teind-potley wad he gie to the
bishop; an' for that was he roastit,—brunt up, clean steek,
stoop an' roop, amang the deals o'his bra boat, an' sticket
up to the oxters in a tar-barrel. I saw Norman Gourlay—
GORDONSHA,
(rushing forward and intercepting him.)
You saw the devil, you beggarly knave! Ye're a man
to gang travellin' the kintra, feedin' your blackguard een
wi' the torments o'the godly! Let your fat back pay for
the sins o'your twa impudent een.—Tak that for Norman
that for the laird
o'Randerston, (Smites him,)
an' that for gude Peter Hamilton,
puir fallow! (Smites him a third time.)
FIRST FRIAR.
Kyric Eleison!—Mercy on us, my back!
[Flying off.
THIRD FRIAR.
A den o'lions! Here we be like Daniel in the lion's
den!
SECOND FRIAR.
Thieves! thieves! Here we be like the good Samaritan
among the thieves!
BLACKLAWS,
(bolting forward.)
Thieves, you lice!—thieves, you vermin! The decentest,
godliest, honestest tenants in a'the East Neuk, misca'd
and vilified sae by a pack o'beggars, an' be hangit to
you! Tak that
(fetches him a blow,)
an' be thankfu' its
no waur! Naething like your deserts, ye rascals!
(Again.)
SECOND FRIAR.
Sancte Francisce! my showthers!
(scampers off.)
THIRD FRIAR.
Libera me Francisce—Deil's i'the madmen, they'll be
at me next. Godsake, let's aff—
Tak that, friend, ere you gang—
(Strikes him.)
We'se
no mak fish o'ane an' flesh o'anither.
(Another thwack.)
THIRD FRIAR.
Murder! murder!
(Runs off.)
BLACKLAWS.
Didna I lay weel on? I declare I'm a'swatcin' wi't!
GORDONSHA.
An' nae marvel—you're a bauld warrior wi' your bit
auld barrow-tram. Greasy, good-for-naething knaves!
they'll be clawing their sarkless backs till this day twalmonth,
I hope, wi' this. I'se warrant they'll hae sma'
pleasure this day gazin' at the good man's torments.
BLACKLAWS.
Haith, we'se brag o'this some day to John Rough.
DRUMRAWK.
You may e'en brag there—I'll keep mysel quiet—quietness
is aye best.
GORDONSHA.
Now, let's tak a peep out into the South-street, here—
we'll see them fidgin' an' fykin' wi' their loundered backs
a'the way to the Blackfriars Chapel.
[Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
—Another part of the City.Enter Duncan and Seaton.
DUNCAN.
Good Seaton, I am grieved to be convinced
Th'intended rescue is impossible;
I have explored the ground, and find no hope.
Short is the distance 'tween the good man's gaol,
And his ahhorred place of sacrifice;
And that short space is trebly-lined with rows
Of armed soldiers bristled thick with spears.
Nor only these; but on the Castle's walls
A hundred cannoniers stand all equipt
With fiery linstocks, ready at a word
T'explode upon the huddle of the street
Their murd'rous missiles, should the people make
The smallest movement to relieve their saint.
It would be needless cruel to expose
Ourselves and friends to death so manifest,
Without the chance of saving him we love,
The very object of our bold irruption.
'Tis even so, my friend—we must submit
Our souls in silence to the ways of heaven,
Who wills that wicked men should tyrannize
A moment, carrying their ungodly schemes,
That fuller retribution of sore wrath
May seize them, sorer felt from late success.
DUNCAN.
Go then, instruct our friends where they are met,
Awaiting what directions we may send.
Tell them their proffer'd aids are now not needed,
At least for rescue, as we once design'd.
[Exit Seaton.
For me, no bus'ness in this town remains,
But to take farewell of my doomed friend,
And catch his precious blessing ere he die.
[Exit.
SCENE V.
—Wishart's Cell in the Sea-tower of the Castle.Wishart
discovered kneeling.
O Thou, who, from thy glorious throne on high,
Look'st down into the darkness of this world,
Amid this world's corruption and their own,—
Father of Mercy, look upon me now
In mercy, and support me in the hour
Of fiery tribulation for thy sake!
If rightly I have read thy precious word,
Applying to my wounded soul its salves,—
If blameless I've expounded it to others,
Administ'ring to their diseased hearts
The healing consolation it contains,—
O be thy hand now on me, to confirm
My soul against all natural alarms,
And buoy her up with hopes celestial,
Else faint and drooping at th'approach of death.
(The door of the Cell suddenly opens, and Duncan enters.)
Who comes to interrupt, in my last hour,
Unbidden thus, my converse with my God?
DUNCAN.
I come, my brother! into thy dear arms
Once more to fall—alas, the last embrace!—
O, pardon me, sweet saint, that I intrude
Unseasonably so upon thy prayers;
Share the devotions of thy last sad hours;
I must upraise my hands with thee to heaven;
And if thou suff'rest frailty's tears to fall,
I must needs weep to part with thee for ever!
WISHART.
Talk not of weeping, my beloved friend;
This is an hour of gladness, not of grief;
Behold my spirit elevate in joy;
Ere the last pains o'ertake her, she puts off
Her cumbrous garments of woe-giving flesh,
And shakes her loose from every manacle
Of earth, the sooner to arrive in heaven.
DUNCAN.
O take me thither with thee; let me climb
With thee the chariot of consuming fire,
That wafts thee like Elijah to the sky.
Else I shall wander lonely through the earth,
Elisha-like, companionless and sad,
Mine only joy, the cherish'd memory
Of those sweet conversations we have had;
Mine only hope, to 'scape away from life,
And join thee in the palaces of heaven!
Bear thou to live, my friend; a little while
Bear to behold the oppressions of the just;
Ere long these killing storms shall overblow,
And leave the Sun of Truth and Happiness
Possessing with his beams the firmament.
Then shall men dwell in gospel-bowers with joy;
Then shalt thou gather from diviner lips
Than mine, far richer fruits of eloquence,
To sublimate thy spirit meet for heaven.
Be these glad prospects, be thy holy hopes,
Be the blest themes we did discuss together,
Be the consoling promises of God
Thy stay, amid the desolating wreck
Of death-dissolved friendships, oh, my friend!
DUNCAN.
Alas, these consolations and these themes,
All joyous as they are, are coupled so
With the remembrance of the man that sow'd
Joy-bearing seed into my barren heart,
That as they daily, hourly shall recur
To me so reft, thy never-sundered image
Shall tinge their very joy with melancholy,
Thy steps before me into Paradise.
WISHART.
Heaven's cheering grace remain with thee for ever,
Gilding thy course of earthly pilgrimage,
That thou mayst do thy various duties well,
To God, and to thy friends, and to thyself!
I too had duties whilst I was on earth,
But death has cut their glad fulfilment off.
On thee that charge I joyfully devolve,
Making thee proxy to my dearest duties.
My mother had me once a loving son;
Now she's forlorn, and has thee in my stead:
O be her son for me, and comfort her,
Amid her childless solitude and tears;
Yet in my words exhort her not to weep,
But pray for mercy to my enemies,
Rejoicing that her son is gone before
Into that glory she anticipates.
And give her this, this last, this valued token,
Which I have treasured long beside my heart.
[Gives him his pocket Bible.
Tell her 'twas this that fortified me so,
Amid the gentle meltings of the flesh,
Unstinging of its pain the element
On whose bright waving spires I climb to heaven;
And on her cheek, for me her son in heaven,
Impress, my faithful friend, the last salute;
Oh, give her this—
[Falls on his neck and kisses him.
DUNCAN.
Alas, my friend, my brother!
Excuse these tears; if thou hast little cause
To weep in leaving this vain world of sin,
I sure have much in sep'rating from thee,
So pure, my blest example and my guide.
O it shall be my happiness, my pride,
To these devolved duties to succeed;
And thy last words and tender sweet commissions
Shall be transmitted and fulfill'd as well
As one can do, who ever on his heart
Shall have thy blessing and thy words engraved.
[Here enters Dishington, Captain of the Castle.
DISHINGTON.
My friends, (for by that name I call you both,)
Compels me to intrude on your discourse,
Unwillingly reminding that the hour
Appointed for departure is at hand.
WISHART.
Now, let us part, my friend—Heaven wills we should.—
Good Dishington, I follow thee with joy.
DUNCAN.
Yet I will cling to thee, my much-beloved,
E'en till th'invidious fire shall interpose
His burning hand t'untwine our last embrace!
[Exeunt.
SCENE VI.
—A Street of the City.Enter Seaton and Carmichael.
It is not my conceit, this stratagem;
Its merit rests with some unknown inventor;
As I was passing down the Market-street,
I overheard a knot of surly townsmen,
Agape and swallowing each the other's breath,
Their faces stormy-sour with discontent,
One clench'd his fist, and swore a vulgar oath,
(I knew him to be blacksmith by his face,
Dimm'd with the honest smoke of his profession)
That, give him two score fellows like himself,
Arm'd but with thumping hammers and with tongs,
Some sunny morn he should go crawling through
Lord Card'nal's gates, and cause fly down to splints
His chamber-doors before the pith of iron;
Then he should creep near to my Lord's bedside,
And say as Ehud to fat Moab's king,
I have a message unto thee from God:
And I should then like Jael, Heber's wife,
Take up, quo' he, my hammer in my hand,
And smite him in the temples till he die.
So should I punish him who slays God's saints!
CARMICHAEL.
Thank you, friend Seaton, for the blacksmith's speech,
Myself I may advantage of it soon.—
Farewell, I'll see you by to-morrow morn.
[Exeunt severally.
| Cardinal Beaton | |