University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

A State Chamber. The Council assembled.
Cornwall, Clare, Leicester, Becket, De Bohun, De Lucy, Grand Prior, Winchester.
Cornwall.

Well met, my lords: what makes us here so
soon after cock-crow?

Clare.

I can tell as little as Sir Chanticleer himself;—
perhaps his Highness's conscience-keeper has the secret?

Leicester.

Ay, Chancellor, how judge you?

Becket.

What I, gentlemen? In good truth my knowledge
on the matter does not exceed your own, nor is my
judgment any deeper than yours,— (Aside)
and that is
very shallow; my guesses may pierce a little farther indeed!

De Lucy.
Silence; here 's the King!

Enter Henry.
Henry.
Fair morning.—Ha? when comes the trial on
Before our bench, of that law-breaking priest?

Becket.
To-morrow, Sire, I hope.

Winchester.
It cannot be.

Henry.
It cannot, bishop? wherefore?

Winchester.
Sire, I fear
There may be obstacles.

Henry.
Pshaw!—cliffs and gulfs
Are obstacles to grasshoppers, not eagles.—
Archbishop Theobald is dead, my lords:
Whom shall we give the regular chapter leave
To elect? Who shall be Primate, cousin Clare?

Clare.
What thinks your Highness of the Abbot Blaise?

Henry.
Too old! too old!—I've had enough of greybeards!
Age renders obstinate, and knots and gnarls
The bent of our green-grown opinions. I
Still less than conjugal, love stale episcopal
Petticoat government!—Your man, Grand Prior?

Grand Prior.
My Lord of Winton here, though like an oak
Hoary at top, has sap enough; and fame
Of wisdom for a kingdom.

Henry.
He has too little
Even for himself, or else he had not cross'd me.—
O Prior, 'twere too rough and wearisome
An office for my lord; too full of ‘obstacles;’
I would not throw them in the velvet path
His wisdom rightly chooses to the grave.—You, Constable?

De Bohun.
I'm no thinker.

Henry.
What say you, Chancellor?

Becket.
My gracious liege, I have no choice but yours:
That will, as ever it is, be most discriminate,
Profoundest, wisest; all-advantageous,
For him, the kingdom, and your royal self.

Henry.
So think I!—Gentlemen, salute his grace
Thomas à Becket, our good Chancellor,
Archbishop of Canterbury, and Primate of all England.

Lords.
Our best congratulations to his grace!

Becket.
My liege, let my humility decline
This honour, I beseech—

Henry
(in his ear).
Nay, Thomas, keep
For imposition-time i' the church, your Nolo
Archi-episcopari!—Put this other
Pigeon into thy scrip, poor man!—
(Aloud.)
We've said it:
Now that is done we call'd ye hither for,
To give some state and solemnness to the deed
Ere it be sanctified by ritual
Which we much reverence, and will observe
In all its just assumptions,—now disperse,
Each to his several duty. I to mine.

[Exit.
[The Lords take leave, with much courtesy towards Becket.
Becket.
Your lordships' lowliest, most devoted slave!—
[Exeunt Lords.
The Second Man of the kingdom!—My ambition
Mounts then its hoped-for towery throne; and there
Sits crown'd with the proud mitre, scarce o'ertopp'd
By one star of the regal diadem!—
Am I indeed the son of Gilbert Becket?—
How my soul swells!—like his who pinnacled
On some high-pitch'd, realm-skirted promontory,
Takes in the immensities around, beneath,
Skies, seas, and continents, with rapturous gaze!
How mine eye kindles! How my spirit burns
Like yon great sun, brighter as it moves higher!—
My very frame seems grown gigantical!
I feel as I could overstride the earth—
Yea, grasp heaven's ruling orbs in my two hands!
Thou purer air that makest the mountain-pine
Shoot up till he befits his lofty station,
Why shouldst thou not descend in nourishing dews
To make high-natured men pre-eminent
Of form as mind?—Becket! thou 'rt in the clouds;
Sublimity makes thy brain swim—thou 'rt not fit for it!
He 's only great who can despise his greatness.
Be not the night-fly drawn into the flame
By thy blind love of splendour, and there burnt!
True Magnanimity hath no outward measure,
Nor is reveal'd by that. Is not the emmet
Sagacious as the elephant? To our minds
Alone, we may—by custom of great thoughts,
By venturous deeds and versancy with power,
Ambrosial food of books, august discourse,
By ever straining towards some height from which
Our former selves look little—to our minds
We may add stature, cubit upon cubit,
Until in them we become Anakim,
Nobler than earth e'er form'd!—
'Tis reasonable,
I do confess, to think that this fine essence,
Grandeur of soul, should breathe itself throughout
The mien and movements: every word should speak it,
Howe'er so calm—like the pleased lion's murmur!
Each tone, glance, posture, should be great with it.
All levity of air, too buoyant cheer,
The o'er-familiar smile, salute , and chat
Which sinks us to the low and common level,
Should be dismiss'd, and giant-minded things
Disclaim the pigmy natural to most men.—
No doubt!—that 's well!—that 's very well.—
The Second Man of the kingdom!—This is much,
And yet I might be more!—Not just the first,
That were scarce possible; but—but—co-equal!
To become which there gleams a ray. O Becket!
What a brave course to run! lustrous, celestial,
As thy bright birth-star's, when he would ascend
To the world's zenith! Clouds and storms will gather
Round him—nay, blot him o'er; but through them he
Bursts soon, as I shall!—If at last he falls,
He falls in splendour,—and all men must die!

[Exit.