University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

—Sir John Cuming's Castle in Badenoch.
Sir John Cuming, Lady Marjory Cuming.
SIR JOHN CUMING.
Edward is coming, dear; he's on his way,
With Anthony de Bek, and all his lords,
And the pick'd wits of learning-larded France,
With all their garniture of wigs and gowns,
Strutting with law and with theology:
Northumberland is groaning 'neath the weight
Of learned bellies lumbering toward the North;
Tyne mutters to the Tweed the coming troop,
And Tweed shrinks in, and sweats with apprehension
At being drunk up by their multitude.

LADY MARJORY CUMING.
I trow, the river needs not be alarm'd;
The learned drink no water in their wine.

SIR JOHN CUMING.
Tut, tut, they're primed and charged to the mouth,
Like culverins, all ready to fire out
The world-amazing crack of their decision;
We'll hear it here at Badenoch; 'twill blow
Down to the dust our steeple-lofty hopes:
They're coming, lady, to suppress the Cuming.

LADY MARJORY CUMING.
What! may King Donald Bane's great name avail not?
Shall English royalty and Gallic law
Trample on his terrific memory?

SIR JOHN CUMING.
Ay, good King Donald, with his daughter Bethok,
And Hexild, and the rest—I mickle dread,
Kick'd from all hopes, their grandchildren may pack
To live on limpets on poor Barra's rock,
As did their great dethroned progenitor:
Why—we're all shoulder'd out of sov'reignty
By this strange shoal of raw-born candidates.
King Ned had undertaken to reduce
The number two to one, but in that stead
He has, like Cadmus, sown the serpent's teeth,
And up the golden-helmed bloody crop
Of brethren rise, with faces grim as hell,
Mad to be murder'd all, and flourishing
Their fratricidal crackling arms on high,
To hew each other down into the dust,
That spawn'd their reg'ment but a trice before.

LADY MARJORY CUMING.
What spick-and-span fresh claimants are a-field?

SIR JOHN CUMING.
A dainty round half-dozen at the least;—
There's Florence, Earl of Holland, who hath hoisted
Some twenty thousand trowser'd Dutch aboard
His timber-floats, that can exhibit him
On the fourth morn beside the pier of Leith:
He first and fearfullest—There's Sir John Hastings;
Sir Nicholas Foulis; Sir Roger Mandeville;
Patrick Dunbar, our kinsman Earl of March;
Sir Walter Ross; and to befringe the list
With beauteous bastardy, Sir William Vessie,
Who now proclaims, as with the sound of trump,
His mother was not given to harlotry,
But litter'd him according to the canon,
In blameless blankets, most authentically:
Think'st thou that Donald Bane's sweet memory
Can thrive, or not be smother'd down to death
By such a squeeze of upstarts?

LADY MARJORY CUMING.
Bad it bodes
Not for the Cuming only, but the country,
That Edward, honour'd with that reference,
Should multiply dissensions by up-swarming
A mob of such unvouched candidates.

SIR JOHN CUMING.
Mass, dame, 'tis true; I ever augur'd ill
Of England's intermeddling in this cause.
What! is our country too unwise, too weak,
To settle of herself her fireside quarrels;
But she must gad abroad in discontent,
Seeking some foreign daysman to come in
With proud arbitrement, inviting him
To domineer and scowl on each pretence?
Must Europe's law and learning be scraped up
From her broad surface, to determine here
Whose is th'arm-chair at Scoon? 'Tis just as if
Goodman and wife should have a bit of bicker,
And each should pettishly gad round the town,
Beseeching honest burghers to come in
And solve the strife 'twixt smock and pantaloon.
Hark ye, good Marjory, the Scottish States
That day gave all their wisdom to the wind,
When they surrender'd to a stranger's hand
The right of nomination to their throne;
We'll hear o't with a racket by and by.
Meantime, my dame, we must be ducking down
Our heads into humility, full glad
In being of King Donald's stirp, without
His chance of kingdom or of limpet-soup.
Let Bruce and Baliol battle out the broil;
Keep we at home, and wear our happy heads
In quiet near the hearth.

LADY MARJORY CUMING.
Nay, but, dear,
'Tis hard to wake poor subjects, after dreaming
Of kinging it so very joyously.

SIR JOHN CUMING.
Yea, but 'tis harder, after having dream'd
Of wearing paper-crowns, and pseudo-jewels,
And feeding indigestibly on peacocks,
To wake on Barra's barren rock with nought
But an old blanket to protect from cold,
And only periwinkles for a breakfast:
These were King Donald's darling miseries,
All which he hugg'd, and mounted by their means
Into the chair, whereon a day or two
He monarchised it in a merry mood,
Till scoundrel Edgar pluck'd him by the nose,
And dosed him that he died.

LADY MARJORY CUMING.
May God forefend
To us such doleful thronings, and dethronings!

SIR JOHN CUMING.
Ay, dame, 'tis better here, at Badenoch,
Fattening on pease, than in a dizzy court
Emaciating on peacocks, with a head
Tottering upon your shoulders, and a crown
Twice tottering on that head, neither your own,
But ready to be hewn, or hurried off
By interlopers.

LADY MARJORY CUMING.
Rest we then at ease,
Nestling in th'obscure happiness of home;
It is at least the safest.

SIR JOHN CUMING.
As 'tis wisest,
T'extort from crabbed sour necessity
Some sap of comfort.—We'll be lookers-on,—
Idle ourselves, upon the scrambling strife:
So, go to,—dame, get us a feast of pease,
And peace;—leave royal cates and cares to others:
Go to—go to—let us be merry, Marjory!

SCENE II.

—Berwick.
Enter King Edward and Anthony De Bek.
KING EDWARD.
What news, De Bek? Are now these northern lords
And honourable burgesses all met,
Towards my kingly coming? What's their cheer?
Look they as cross and uncomplaisant
As at the church of Norham, where I got
Such sour reply and gloominess of brows?

DE BEK.
Ten days, my liege, they have been waiting here,
With murmurs all the while at your delay;
I have observed them, and have watch'd their words
Betokening no submission or compliance;
Their faces, as they enter'd Berwick gate,
Seem'd scowling at the stones with discontent,
As if they said, We have no business here;
We are poor fools thus to be led about
Like dancing-dogs by England; and, e'er since,
I have o'erheard them as I walk'd the streets
Mutt'ring big burly words of Independence,
And Scotland's lordship, how she is as free
Of England as the quick and skittish wind
Is of the quagmire that she skims along,
Tossing her tall slim rushes in contempt.

KING EDWARD.
Ha, mort de Dieu! Is't so?—I liked not, truly,
The audacious bearing of these northern churls,
When they confronted me at Norham church,
With brows as over-lordly as mine own:
I ask'd submission, and they gave me scorn;
When I required their joint acknowledgment
Of England's vouch'd superiority,
As necessary act preliminary
To farther process in their settlement,
They set their faces up as if to heaven,
With saucy speech; saying, I ask'd a thing
Illegal, which if e'er their tongues should yield,
Might cancers eat them up e'en from the root,
And that to God in heaven, to none beside
Their king was subject, nor shall ever borrow
A power at second-hand from crowned creature
As underling to any king on earth.
Whereat displeased, I caused them flit from hence,
Like sparrows at an angry schoolboy's shout,
And here appointed them a second meeting,
Once more to try their mood.

DE BEK.
Their mood, O Sire,
Remains obdurate as their country's rocks;
Nor vinegar of threat, nor axe of gold,
Has power to mollify or break them down
E'er to concede their country's vassalage.
I have been sapping round and round their souls
With the temptation of bright English angels;
As saints do devils, they resist our angels.
I have been threatening them with English wrath,
But Scottish pride rebuffs me scowl for scowl.
In sooth, my liege, it will be hard to deal
With such perversity and touchiness,
Or tame it into crouching acquiescence.

KING EDWARD.
Ha, so? St Mary! ere I name their king,
He shall confess himself my feudatory;
I'll see to that.

DE BEK.
If then my lord would look
For one that will submissively subserve,
Giving his gentle spirit to be govern'd,
Mark thou the meek competitor, De Baliol.
He may submit him to the vassal's bit.
If thou would'st overlook and pass by one
Whose o'er-imperious mettle would rebel,
And wince against the pricks of good authority,
Mark thou De Bruce; he has the seeds within him
Of obstinate and unobsequious pride;
He's not the man for England.

KING EDWARD.
I know something
Of both the men.—But go, De Bek, convene
Anon a council in the parish church
Of the commissioners of either realm,
There to discuss, previous to my decision,
Who most to them appears to have the right;
And bid the claimants, Bruce and Baliol,
Here meet me separately, that I may probe
Their secret dispositions thoroughly
Ere I declare.

[Exit De Bek.
KING EDWARD
(alone.)
What!—Sang de Dieu!—Must I
Thus be fobb'd off and fool'd with vanity?
St Edward! No—I took not up this task
Thus to be disconcerted, baffled, baulked
From my original and secret purpose:—
For this was I recall'd, and flatter'd off
From purging long-vex'd Jewry of the Turk,
Whither I was on expedition bent,
Following dear glory e'en to the awful spot
Where Jesu died—for this, but to preside
A shadow of an arbitrator here,
O'erlay'd with Peace's cumbrous frock, and reaping,
Instead of harvests of wide-waving fame
In the rich East, a handful of poor wind
Upon the North-west's barren barriers?
Marry, no, no—
'Twas not for this I did disband my men,
And sunk at once my heaven-saluting banners,
And whirl'd me homewards from astonish'd France,
And turn'd my back upon the gorgeous East,
To plant a king in Scotland, to perk up
One that should spurn my lordship, and full soon
Steal strength to terrify, and tug me back
From future ventures in the Orient:
Ay, verily, I should be chronicled
A gosling of a king, a sceptred ninny,
To travail thus with panting and with sweat
For ends so puny and so nugatory:—
I'll see to manage better.—Ere exerting
My privilege of umpire, I'll take care
That he, whom I shall nominate their king,
Shall doff the cap of homage to my throne;
I'll see it done in manifest clear act,
Exposed to glaring sunlight, that henceforth
No Scottish king shall mutter doubts about it,
But truckle down to me and England's sceptre
Till the world's end.

Enter De Bek with Lord Bruce.
DE BEK.
My gracious sovereign, here
At your high bidding waits the Lord De Bruce.
[Exit De Bek.

KING EDWARD.
All hail, Lord Bruce, and welcome!

LORD BRUCE.
Hail, thrice hail
To England's king, and happiness for ever
Be handmaid in attendance round his throne!

KING EDWARD.
Thanks, Lord De Bruce, and should a throne be yours,
(As who dare prophesy it shall not be?)
Heaven grant its canopy be all of joy,
As be its bottoms lined with liegemen's love!
But thrones are slippery and unsteady things,
And ticklish in the winning; wherefore help
From some beneficent and powerful hand
Is needed for th'attainment; Right itself
Is impotent in furious competitions,
And needs to be crutch'd up by th'sturdier props
Of Interest and Influence.

LORD BRUCE.
King of England,
My claims are known and out upon the world
In hot discussion, scarce requiring now
A vain enlargement to your royal ear.
I am the grandson of the great Earl David,
To that high stock the nearest in descent;
I pillar all my titles and pretensions
On this foundation; and should these fair claims
Prove, as I trust, of true validity,
O'erweighing others in th'impartial scales
Of arbitration poised by your hand,
I shall rejoice, O King, t'accept the crown
Adjudged to me as rightful heritage:
And I shall wear it more exultingly
From being tender'd by a hand so honour'd.
But should my title be o'erpoised by one
Discover'd to be juster, well I know
How goodly and how glorious thing it is
To be submissive to awarded right;
I have it not to learn to be a subject.

KING EDWARD.
Ay, that is well, De Bruce, and marks a mind
Revolving on itself heroically,
High hung on Honesty's thrice-noble hinge.
But mark, De Bruce,—when Justice is perplex'd
With subtle points of hair-breadth nice solution,
Wherein Discrimination's eagle eye
Is foil'd and puzzled with resemblances,
Why, then a grain of favour, a poor mote
Of any gracious stuff foreign from justice,
Relieves th'inquisitive search-pained eye,
Making it fasten with fond predilection
On what would otherwise be under-prized:
Even so your title, goodly though it seem,
And shining out with shows of verity,
Might be advantaged by a small adjunct,
A precious one, though small, a golden gloss
Gilt on its solid substance, wherewithal
To rivet down the adjudicator's eye,
And win and witch it into prejudice.
Think on't, De Bruce; I would your title were
Graced with that decoration.

LORD BRUCE.
Should that bring
Upon my name no blot, nothing dishonourable
On me or on my country, would I had
This commendation to your kingly grace.

KING EDWARD.
William the Lion, brother of thy grandsire,
Th'anointed King of Scotland, deem'd it not
A blot upon his name or on his crown,
To be what Bruce may be to win his right,—
The homager of England.

LORD BRUCE.
Willingly,
As my forefathers knelt, I too shall kneel
For Cumberland and the other seigniories
Achieved for us in England; heretofore,
That homage ne'er has been refused, and now
Will not be grudged.

KING EDWARD.
The Lion did not blush
To kneel him down to my great grandsire Harry
Ev'n for his crown.

LORD BRUCE.
That fealty, my lord,
Was wrench'd from his extreme necessities,
As being a vanquish'd man, and pris'ner fain
To catch at any terms for a release:
That fealty for ever was disclaim'd
By your King Richard; thence confess'd to be
A casual and capricious extortion,
Not as a right adherent to his crown.
King William's oath, unsworn, recanted thus,
Leaves Scotland what she was, and aye shall be,
Subjected to the God of Heaven alone:
And your high majesty commits a wrong
On me, and on my country, in requiring,
As bargain for our kingly settlement,
Surrender so illiberal and slavish.

KING EDWARD.
De Bruce, De Bruce, think of the price how little,
The purchase how immense!

LORD BRUCE.
The price, O king,
Is servitude, which, though in outward act
It be but bending of the body's joint,
Stamps the whole mind eternally with stain
More shameful-foul than flatt'ry can o'ergild.
I will not crouch to such an infamy;
I will not cringe a thrall, to mount a king;
I will not thus abuse, insult my country,
And drag her down from th'eminence of glory,
On whose illumin'd far-seen tops she sits
High-throned, next to the burning sun of heaven:
Be my lips blasted ere I own her vassal;
Be my hand wither'd ere I sign her vassal:
Dry up my joints, shrink, stiffen into death,
Ere I do bend the knee to doom her vassal;
I'd rather be a hind upon her soil,
Ploughing her glorious ridges haughtily,
Mean in my state, but mighty in my freedom,
Than strut about amid her palaces,
Crown'd despicably and ingloriously,
Debased, debasing, with the sneaking breath
Of mean subjection, tarnishing the domes
Where Scotland's monarchs hitherto have walk'd
Free in unmaster'd, conscious majesty.
This is my answer to your royal grace;
If such the terms of royalty, I scorn it,
And court a subject's noble littleness
Rather than cringe a vassal-monarch so.
I leave your highness to deliberate
Upon my titles; if they have no weight
Disjoin'd from such submission, let them perish;
If they be strong, let me on them alone
Rise nobly to a yet-unblemish'd throne.
[Exit De Bruce.

KING EDWARD.
There, there is northern mettle, there is stuff
Too stubborn stiff e'en to extend a hand
For acceptation, or to curve the knee
Into becoming shape of thankfulness!—
Ev'n let him pack with all his pride about him;
Let that up-buoy, and keep aloft his heart
With mighty musings, when his humbled head,
Bare of th'expected royalty, shall sink
Down into shame before some happier rival.
We'll find another, oil'd with more compliance,
Whose joints, uncramp'd with cold formality,
Will be more supple to cow'r down, and be
Paid for the kneeling with a diadem.
Such starched stiffness will not do for England
Be his rights strong as cable, they shall snap
As thread before the tug of my displeasure:
By this demeanor shall his rival's claim
Tenfold be better'd and be beautified;—
But here he comes, twin-brother of the claim,
Calmer and sweeter, boding tamer things
By his aspect.

[De Bek enters, with the Lord de Baliol.
DE BEK.
My liege, I usher in,
According to the pleasure of your grace,
The Lord De Baliol to the royal presence.

KING EDWARD.
I bid Lord Baliol hail, and stretch to him
Thus joyfully the hand of salutation.
I but salute him as a subject yet;
But soon, with God's good grace illustrating
To our convinced sense his title's fairness,
I hope to give him higher gratulation,
And clasping him more closely, bid him walk
A brother-king, yoked with me arm in arm,
In high-aspiring loftiest fellowship.

DE BALIOL.
I thank your grace, great England's majesty,
For gratulations of such stirring hope;
I pray to God your highness may be bless'd
With plenitude of days and earthly joys,
Even till Felicity's rich well be drain'd;
So shall your joys upon us back redound,
In their reflection relish'd as our own,
As ours again, reverted mutually,
Haply may give fresh relish to your grace's.

KING EDWARD.
Why, that is friendship, Baliol, and infers
An interchange of kindly offices
Refused by neither, tendered tenderly,
And taken not too doggedly, but with
A flexible and kneeling gratitude.
Why, there be men, who, at a proffer'd boon,
Turn up a snorting and a saucy nostril,
As if the proffer did accuse their virtue;
As if they shudder'd, in their stubbornness,
At the immense imagined debt incurr'd
By mere receiving of a benefit.
Others there be more gentle, who submit
To pocket gifts, and scorn not to be grateful.
I like the man, whose oily soul is soft
To such impressions, who can say “God bless you,
I thank you, sir;” and, seeking tow'rd his knee,
Can curve a seemly genuflection,
Court'sying fair homage to his benefactor.
He is the man I cherish, and would fain,
For his humility, advance on high,
Upon the summit of his heart's desires.—
De Baliol, thou art one of many rivals;
The choice is in my hands; can'st thou be chosen
And not be thankless?—Set by me upon
The king-trod platform that commands the world,
Can'st thou humiliate thyself a little,
And kneel a quittance for thine exaltation?
Speak out thy mind, De Baliol.

DE BALIOL.
Royal sir,
When Goodness, like a god, extends a gift,
'Tis churlishness, inhuman, demon-like,
To start away, abhorrent of the boon,
With grudge and malediction of the giver—
What would your grace require?

KING EDWARD.
List ye, Lord Baliol:
William the Lyon, to be Scotland's King,
Acknowledged her dependance upon England,
And knelt at York, in presence of his lords,
Surrender to King Henry. What he did,
Thou well may'st do; the precedent is given,
Incurring neither challenge nor reproof
On him who seconds, not originates
The example; which to follow quietly,
Good men who cherish peace will much commend.
And albeit some few churlish malcontents
May rate and rail, it's envy may be flung
On the precedent doer who chalk'd out
A line of action to his successor,
Admitting no transgression; and which he
That mounts the throne must needfully walk by:
Make up thy mind for answer, Lord De Baliol;—
Should'st thou refuse, there stands one at the door
Ready to enter in upon thy footsteps,
To catch the prize on these or any terms,
To cringe the knee as low as I shall bid him,
And by a short small feudal ceremony
T'avert and alienate from thee and thine,
Thy house's hopes, and Scotland's crown—for ever!

DE BALIOL.
O King!—thou hast assail'd and won my soul:—
I yield me to thy instances.

KING EDWARD.
Then happy,
Happy De Baliol! thou art fortune's darling;
I do congratulate thee on her embraces;
For this thy sons shall bless thee, and this day
Shall be the term whence thou and thy posterity
Shall date their flood of honours and of joys.
Kneel then, my lord, in private here to me
Thy sign of homage, which in proper form
Before the dignitaries of either realm
Thou shalt exhibit more notoriously.
Kneel, my good lord!

DE BALIOL
, (kneeling.)
I kneel in testimony,
That I do now, as my successors shall,
Henceforth and to all time, receive the right
Of kingship over Scotland, from the hands
Of England's King, our feudatory chief,
And paramount superior, to whom 'longs
Our realm as proper fee!

KING EDWARD.
'Tis done, and seal'd;—
Now, John De Baliol! rise thou King of Scotland;
Up, and erect thy face to royalty!
Look now abroad commandingly; now laugh
At thy co-rivals, who, abash'd and baffled,
From thy imperial glance shall shrink again
Back to their holes of mean obscurity.
Whilst thou—To Scoon, and be thou crown'd King John!
The sceptre, robes, and holy oil of unction,
Await thee there; whilst here I utter forth,
By my own mouth, and the collected mouths
Of Europe's here amass'd oraculous wisdom,
Thy name uncontradicted Scotland's King;—
Away, King Baliol, get you gone to glory!—
[Exit De Baliol.
'Tis well—that fowl is fledged—E'en let him fly;
He is mine own;—I have the gesses twined
About my hand, by which at pleasure I
Shall twitch him from his heaven of royalty.—
Now for the council, whom, embroil'd and vext
With wearisome insolvable discussion,
My word must disentangle and set free,
Melting asunder with one puff of breath
Th'inextricable knot that puzzles them.

SCENE III.

—Council-room, with Lawyers, &c.
FIRST LAWYER.
The scales of law have been suspended long,
But yet the balance trepidates in doubt;
I see no outlet from the labyrinth
In which we err, confounded more and more,
Groping for an escape.

SECOND LAWYER.
I do opine
That Baliol's claim is better by the right
Of primogeniture convey'd to John
Through Donagill and Marg'ret, two descents—

THIRD LAWYER.
But that priority seems overborn
By Bruce's greater nearness to the stock,
He being grandson to the Royal Earl;
Whereas his rival is great grandson merely,
A point to be perpended much.

FOURTH LAWYER.
My Lords,
The question then, from all its multiply'd
And various shoots, converges to this issue:
Shall seniority and feudal custom
In kingdoms govern the succession, as
In other heirships and more small entails?
Or shall, in questions where a throne depends,
Superior sex, and one degree's more close
Proximity, have weight to overpoise
That right of birthdom strong in other cases?
Speak your opinion, lords and councillors.

Semichorus of Lawyers.
We are perplex'd!

Semichorus of Lawyers.
We vibrate unresolved.

[Here King Edward enters.
KING EDWARD.
My lords and counsellors, I greet you well,
And wish you happy sweet deliverance
From the long fret of this world-teasing theme.
For me—I am deliver'd; after close
Cautious suspension, weary waiting on,
Both day and night, to note and to detect
The trepidation of the mental balance,
Assisted by that better unseen power
That ever hovers o'er the heart of kings,
Touching their slightest thoughts with some divinity,
I am concluded in this fair resolve;—
That John De Baliol, son of Donagill,
Grandson of Marg'ret, Huntington's great grandson,
As being of the eldest daughter's branch,
Bears the true title to the Scottish crown,
Over all other claimants. This my sentence,
Not without Heav'n, as I do hope, resolved,
Will meet, as I believe, earth's gather'd wisdom
To 'stablish it:—Therefore, I conjure you,
By the regards and deference you owe
To gods and kings, and their superior guidance,
And by your love of peace, inducing you
T'avoid blood-stirring black dissension,
That you pronounce, in unison with ours,
A verdict friendly to the Baliol name;—
And so may God defend and help the right!

FIRST LAWYER.
At the king's face, as mists before the sun's,
My doubts dissolve.

FOURTH LAWYER.
The sky of thought clears up.

THIRD LAWYER.
Thank God, the golden thread of Ariadne
Is cast:—I do opine, with England's Majesty,
That Baliol is the true inheritor.

Semichorus of Lawyers.
King John!

Semichorus of Lawyers.
King John!

Chorus of Lawyers.
Vivat King John for ever!

KING EDWARD.
God's grace—'tis well; a peaceful fair result;
One which, though now shut up and pinn'd within
Th'epitome of this poor church, will soon
Fly out on fame, and amplify its range
From Europe's western to her eastern bound,
Winning all tongues of subjects and of kings
To gratulate and bid acclaim to it:—
Now then announce it to the trumpeters,
Those brazen-breath'd artificers of sound,
That stand without all ready, with their gear,
To volley our decision to the spheres,
That the broad firmament may ring of it,
And send it hence in echoes to Dunbar;
Thence Edinburgh Fort may hollow up
The news to Stirling, and that central citadel,
In circling waves of sound, reverberate
Around that land to which it appertains,
That John De Baliol is her chosen king!

SCENE IV.

—As before.
Bruce, Macduff, Abernethy, and other Lords.
LORD BRUCE.
And so this mock affair is shuffled up
At last; and Cousin John, God's grace forgive him!
Has sold his country for a bawbling bonnet
Of despicable gold! the guilt of which,
So bought, will line it with a thousand stings,
Making it to his head a cap of torture
To prickle him to death:—Go ye, my lords,
And celebrate, with cozenage of looks,
His coronation; I will stay at home,
Aloof from rite so thick with infamy.
I'll burrow in the darkest dens of earth,
Rather than stand in sunlight, and behold
My country beggar'd of her reputation,
Enthrall'd, and doom'd, and damn'd to an usurper,
By one whose hand should prop her glory up.
Can parricide than this be found more hideous?
O, I am mad on't; I'll go instant home,
And tutor children, family, and vassals,
Upon this theme's abhorred wickedness;
Adjuring them, by Huntington's proud blood,
And prouder, more ennobling, love of country,
To nourish, feed, and husband in their souls,
Dear hate and rancour at such caitiff deed,
Till retribution come.
[Exit De Bruce.

ABERNETHY.
Aha! is it thus?
Already up in fume?—Let him go packing
Amid his Carrick boors, and fret his soul
To death, with crabbed lectures on his rights:—
We are enow without him t'introduce
King John to royalty.

MACDUFF.
His speech is bad:
I like it not.

ABERNETHY.
My lord, my lord, be wary;
Look to thy words, and single them with care,
Lest they bewray thee cross and mal-content.
For should the disaffection but peep out,
King John has friends to make rebellious lips
Regorge their utter'd treason.

MACDUFF.
Injurious lord!
I pray my God, that our dear country be
Enrich'd and honour'd from this day's decision.
I broach no treason; I inflame no feuds;
But my beloved land will pardon me
My spirits' heaviness, when I behold
Her noble prime, the pillars and the stays
Of her too-tott'ring throne, now wheeling off
In civil spleen, t'uptug it from the base,
And rive it, in their rivalry, asunder:
May God defend our land!

ABERNETHY.
Thy fears, my lord,
Argue distrust even of the God thou pray'st to,
And of King Edward reigning under him.
Edward has banish'd fear, and chased it hence
To Annandale, where it will settle down
To silence and contempt.

MACDUFF.
Heaven send it so;
My prayers be audible; my woeful fears
Rest in my heart unutter'd.

ABERNETHY.
Hence, away,
For Scoon, my lords; the timid droop behind;
King Baliol's loyal liegemen forward thither.

SCENE V.

—A Room in the Palace of Scoon.
Porter of the Palace.—Lord Abernethy.
ABERNETHY.
Why, what's the matter? what intends this stir,
Molesting thus, with clutter and with cry,
Ere dayspring, the beginning preparations
Of coronation-pomp?

PORTER.
My lord, there stands
A madman by, in gesture, gait, and speech,
Strange and unusual.

ABERNETHY.
What? a madman, sirrah?
Why, 'tis not strange that madmen should be here;
They're here, and everywhere, sown through the world,
As thick and gross as funguses:—But what
Of him peculiar?

PORTER.
He stands perch'd before
The palace-gate, with eyes as fiery-red
As cherubim that burn'd and waved upon
The just-forbidden walls of Paradise.

ABERNETHY.
Aha, 'tis usquebaugh that kindles up
His eyes like torches in their drunken sockets;
Go get a dozen of your household knaves,
And from his fixture drag him by the ears
Down to the village-alehouse, where at full
He may re-dabble in his fiery cups,
And double-light his cresset-luminaries.

PORTER.
My Lord, it would be easier to unwrench
The door-post from the stone to which 'tis mortised,
Than sunder him from his usurped spot,
Where, like a garrison, he stands and utters
Words cutting as the swords of adversaries
To those that venture near.

ABERNETHY.
Tush!—Bring me to him;
I'll whip him down, were he as mad's the dog-star.

SCENE VI.

—Gates of the Palace.
Abernethy with Guards, and Seer.
ABERNETHY.
Who art thou, impudent and desp'rate man,
That thus besettest with thy frantic form
And most extravagant ill-timed obstruction,
These royal gates, that must to-day receive
And render back their king in spite of thee
And thy contemn'd forbiddance?—Get thee gone
In peace! else from thy haughty attitude
These hands shall pull thee down, and make thy limbs,
Dismember'd and bestrewn all round about,
A bloody pavement, o'er the which thy King
Shall pass to take possession of his throne!—
Speak, if thou hast a tongue.

SEER.
Yea; I will speak.—
O day of monstrous sorrow, dawn thou not—
Be strangled in the orient's golden porch
Ere thou be born!—Be muffled up, O sun!
Ride thou the heaven in a funereal hearse,
Thy proper chariot for a day like this!
Die out, ye stars—be suffocate on high,
Each in thine orb, ere your bright silvery dance
Lead on the gloomy and portentous dawn
That travails with a birth so black as this!
I see it well—the blood-befringed cloud
Comes wheeling red and heavy up the sky,
From the diseased chambers of the south.
My country, spread beneath it, gathers all
Its shower of blood and hurricane of fire,
That not a vestige of her peace remains.
Alas, the murder and the misery!
The sights of deadly and delirious woe!
War's each fierce freak and barb'rous violation!
Making men shudder back into the wish
For inexistence, and regret their birth!
Forbid it, Heaven!—Seal up these palace-doors—
Compact and stiffen every hinge with rust—
Make the bars gripe their wall immovably,
That force of man may not avail to-day
To burst a passage to the kingly seat!—
O seat of shame!—O throne of Scotland! once
The gem of earth's sublimest glory, now
Dimm'd and disglorified by vile disgrace!
Perfidious hands have sullied thee; thou art
A secondary stool, a foot-rest only
For England's haughty feet to trample on—
Turn from it, countrymen—O do not give
This infamy the blessing of your eyes!
Flee to your hills—conceal ye in your valleys—
Get into graves and huddle down to death,
Ere you behold your country bandied round
The world a public by-word, and a hissing!—

ABERNETHY
, (rushing on him.)
Down, down, thou croaking frog of prophecy!
Down to thy whips of punishment, which thou
Deserv'st so daintily thy lash should be
Fretted with hissing hell-fire, to begnaw
Thy back with pangs of such delicious smart,
Devils should envy thee!

SEER.
Alas, the murder and the misery!

ABERNETHY
, (Guards pull him down.)
May thy words choke thee,
Fulfilling thus thine own cursed augury,
Raven of death!—Off, off!—away with him!—
[They drag him off.
Endungeon him in darkness!—Let him there
Sputter his venom 'mongst congenial vipers,
Until his King and country find an hour
For more severe infliction.—Now, my friends,
This dog of an impediment removed,
Proceed ye to the work; throw wide the gates;
O'ergarnish all their posts and doors with roses;
O'erlay with carpets all the entrances;
Festoon each gallery with glorious wreaths;
Expose and blazon every honour out,
That stones and dumbest things may utter joy
Congratulant of John, their coming King!

SCENE VII.

—Hall in the Palace of Scoon.
King Edward, Baliol, Lords, &c. as immediately after Baliol's consecration.
KING EDWARD.
Now that the oil of unction has been rain'd
Upon thy head, King John, and thou art seal'd
By this most grave inaugurating rite,
As one of Europe's Kings, one like ourself,
By Heaven's great golden charter privileged
To walk on high upon the heads of subjects,
And wield thy comprehensive rod of rule
From Earth to Heaven, sans limit but the stars,
I do enjoin thee, in the name of England,
And by the rights, which in thy privity
Thou wottest well that sovereign name includes,
Stand forth, and quit thy conscience of the debt
Thou ow'st, of fealty and due subjection,
Contracted even by th'act of consecration,
To me as to thy liege lord paramount:
Make forth and do the sign.

SIR WILLIAM DISHINGTON
, (aside.)
Ah ha, subjection!
What means this foreign and contemptuous word
Within these walls, that never yet have echoed
To its report?

SIR DAVID WEMYSS
, (aside.)
England hath coin'd it fresh;
Our eyes anon shall minister its meaning;
Look ye and understand.

MACDUFF
, (aside.)
Humph! A compact!
An infamous and damnable collusion,
Apparent most in its most shameful sequel.

BALIOL
, (stepping forward.)
Here I do kneel before your royal grace,
Ere yet Heaven's oil be dry upon my head,
To testify, by deed indisputable,
Even to these walls, that they may whisper it
Down to a long posterity of kings,
My homage as a faithful feudatory
To thee, my true liege lord, from whom I hold
In fee fair Scotland's crown and seigniories.
I kneel and do the sign.

[Kneels to King Edward.
MACDUFF
, (aside.)
Infamy! Shame!

SIR WILLIAM DOUGLAS
, (aside.)
Alas! disgraced Scotland!

SIR MICHAEL SCOT
, (aside.)
Sooner might
Heaven's sin-avenging fire have scathed our eyes,
Than they had witness'd such an ignominy!

SIR DAVID WEMYSS
, (aside.)
Tell not abroad this scandal, lest the hand
Of some bold freeman stab us for the utterance.

SIR WILLIAM DOUGLAS.
Hence, hence, my friends! an evil breath from hell
Hath blasted this apartment.

ABERNETHY
, (to them.)
Mutterings here?—
Stand more aloof, lest I should hit their meaning.

KING EDWARD.
King John, I do accept this corporal sign
As testimony of your spirit's homage;
And in my mem'ry's records, and my country's,
As such shall book it and entreasure it.
And now, O King, and lords, as all this day's
Most capital king-sealing ceremonies
Have been completed in the sequence due,
That nought but celebration now remains
Of pastime and proud pomp of festival
Befitting kings, that are consorted thus
In solemn brotherhood, to give and take,
On an occasion of such grave import,
Adjourn we hence for a brief hour or two,
That we may recreate and fan our brows
With the wind-purged sky; and, from remission,
Strain more delight, and exquisiter relish
For the large joys that yet unopen'd lie
In the rich bosom of the afternoon.

MACDUFF
, (aside.)
Aspics, alas! and venomous worms, twine round
The root of this fallacious joy—to eat
The false leaves up, and leave a hideous stalk
Of rottenness and canker.