University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

—Before the Palace in Edinburgh.
Dan Henry
, Abbot of Arbroath, solus.
'Tis strange;—some difficult and dogged business
Is sure on hand, that the King's infinite arm
Has by the ear out-cloister'd me so sudden,
Exposing to the night-wind's eager nips
My face, too tender for such sharp assaults:
At two o'clock it fell when I was sitting
Glowing all glad with supper and with Gascoigne,
Within our Abbacy's refectory;
Peter of Pittenweem, and John of Forfar,
And Campsie's blissful parson, Lamberton,
Three jolly pheers, trigemini of Bacchus,
Who had upon a fasting pilgrimage
Arrived, were supping with me; and we had
Just over-swum the gloomy gulf of midnight,
Buoy'd on a dozen bottles: When, behold,
Comes tapping with his tip-staff at my door,
A royal messenger, commanding me,
All hot and joyous-festive as I was,
To plunge myself into the chilly sky,
And take the road upon King John's affairs.
Whereat, conject'ring th'extreme urgency
Of the King's need, and greatly loath to be
Put to the horn for lack of loyalty,
I left my fire-warm, taper-glorious hall,
And silver wine-cups sheeny as the moon,
And sheenier faces of my compotators,
For a most vile exchange—to starve i'th' ether,
To freeze in Jupiter's huge fireless hall,
To kiss the naked Genius of the Frost,
And pledge Bootes for a cup of ice-cream:
All this I brook'd; and, at the royal bidding,
Came post; methought my feast-hot face did hiss
Against the frozen wind till it became
Attemper'd to the pole-star; but, heigh—hold—
Here comes my man of power, my instigator;—
Now, now I must be solemn.—
Enter Sir John Cuming.
Health, Sir John,
And showers of happiness!

SIR JOHN CUMING.
Hail, good Lord Abbot!
Happily come, sweet Saint of Aberbrothwick!
I have been watching, for some weary hours,
The pleni-lune of your desired aspect,
In up-rise peering o'er the heights of Fife;—
Happily come to us impatient—welcome,
Thrice welcome.

DAN HENRY.
Good my Knight of Badenoch,
When the King bids me trudge, 'tis not in me
To keep my stool, and over-count my beads
Like an old beldame shivering o'er her sins;
As posts the meteor o'er the bridge of heaven,
Round from Aquarius to the Virgin's Lap,
My mule and I have shot from Aberbrothwick;
There's not an owl 'tween this and Sidlaw Hill,
That has not been disnested and alarm'd
By our nocturnal hurry.

SIR JOHN CUMING.
Marry, yea,
The sweatier and the fouler be the brows,
Tested the purer is the loyalty;—
And in nice nick it comes; for times are tickle,
Tott'ring that of themselves they cannot stand
Without the props of sturdy holders-up;
Hot zeal and lion-stomach'd stoutness now
Are raked up from corners, and impress'd
On instantaneous service; for, i'th' faith,
'Tis no chuck-farthing work that's now on hand—
Stuff, stuff, for stony-hearted resolutes,
Whose backs bear all rebuffs.

DAN HENRY.
Sir Knight, thou knowest
That I am all the King's—back, flank, and front,
Even to the nail upon my purest toe:
Flesh, skin, and bones, are listed in his service.
His enemies may grind them if they dare:
What would the king with me?

SIR JOHN CUMING.
A deed of hardiment,
Fragrant with honour, rich with difficulty,
Embalm'd with peerless peril and renown;
A task King John rejoices to impose,
As you, my lord, will burn to execute.

ABBOT.
Be it to wade through fire, to swim in seas
Of molten lead, to caper a couranto
Upon the helmet-crest of enemies,
At the king's nod, th'adventure shall be mine.
Express it simply; were it terrible
And grisly-black as are the gates of hell,
I will be at it.

SIR JOHN CUMING.
'Tis the King's desire,
That you do carry to the English throne
This abjuration of the English service,
And be his deputy to swear away
Th'obnoxious bond of service.

ABBOT.
By my lady,
As lustily as I do run to dinner,
When th'Abbey-bell sounds merry banquet-knell,
Dance I to England on this enterprize.
Heigh ho—abjure! That word is to my ears
As glorious-dear as Gascoigne to my veins.
I swell with pride to hear it—I expand
And spread into a giant at the sound;
I'll write it in gilt letters on my cap;
I'll have it nicely wrought and intertissued
Into broad frontlets and phylacteries;
The latchet of my shoe shall speak of it;
My very night-cap shall be hemm'd with it;
I'll holloa it a-top of England's hills
Till all her valleys grumble back its echo;
The gates of London shall be chalk'd with it;
I'll carry round a pulpit on my back,
And preach it up in all her thoroughfares;
Bridges and wharfs, and parliament, and palace,
And Edward's 'sdeignful ears, shall ring with it
To his horrible vexation.

SIR JOHN CUMING.
Thou art the wight,
Lord Abbot, thou!

ABBOT.
Huzza! King John abjures
Thy service, Edward Longshanks!—What? A plague on't!
Are we in Scotland born to be but sneak-ups
To peak and snivel in lean servitude,
Hanging our heads like rain-clogg'd bulrushes,
To any crowned bully of the earth?
Puh, puh!—Fy, fy!—The devil take the homage,
And give it for a rattle to his devilkins
To play with till they suck it down their throats!
Give me th'abjuring letters, good Sir Knight:
I'll see to it that they be well deliver'd;
They shall not founder for a courier.

SIR JOHN CUMING.
Take them, my lord,
(gives the letters.)
To hands more strenuous
They cannot be intrusted.—I rejoice
To be their giver.

LORD ABBOT.
Blessings on the parchment!
O, I will kiss it!—It is rich, rich, rich!
More than the Colchian skin that wore the fleece,
For which old Jason tamed the fiery bulls.
I'll be a Jason to deliver it;
I'll face the brass-horn'd fiery bull of England;
I'll sow the serpent's teeth of irritation;
I'll raise and rout whole armies with a stone;
I'll face St George, abetted by his dragon;
I'll be a second celebrated Jason
On this great expedition.

SIR JOHN CUMING.
To provide
Against contingent needs of travelling,
King John solicits you would arm yourself
With this poor scrip of gold.

DAN HENRY.
Gold? Eh—good, good—
A traveller's ornament, and meetest ballast;
His special prop and adminiculum:
If, as King Philip said, an ass with gold
Could win and carry strongest fortresses,
What may not wise shrewd men effect with it?
Gold is the faith that moves and moulders down
Huge mountains.—'Tis a pretty talisman;
I pocket it unshamed.

SIR JOHN CUMING.
Nothing remains
But to tuck up; the King's affairs ask haste.
I now commit you to the saints, Lord Abbot,
And to yourself, the stoutest saint i'th' ubric:
Depart and prosper.

DAN HENRY.
Fare thee well, Sir Knight;
Ere yon slow zodiack-creeping moon shall have
From blackness re-begot herself, thou'lt see me
Again in Scotland lighten'd of the stomach,
That now enchafes me. Once more, fare thee well,
I go—I disappear.

SIR JOHN CUMING.
Adieu, brave Abbot.

[Exeunt differently.