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Mary Stuart

<h2> DRAMATIS PERSONAE. </h2> ELIZABETH, Queen of England. MARY STUART, Queen of Scots, a Prisoner in England. ROBERT DUDLEY, Earl of Leicester. GEORGE TALBOT, Earl of Shrewsbury. WILLIAM CECIL, Lord Burleigh, Lord High Treasurer. EARL OF KENT. SIR WILLIAM DAVISON, Secretary of State. SIR AMIAS PAULET, Keeper of MARY. SIR EDWARD MORTIMER, his Nephew. COUNT L'AUBESPINE, the French Ambassador. O'KELLY, Mortimer's Friend. COUNT BELLIEVRE, Envoy Extraordinary from France. SIR DRUE DRURY, another Keeper of MARY. SIR ANDREW MELVIL, her House Steward. BURGOYNE, her Physician. HANNAH KENNEDY, her Nurse. MARGARET CURL, her Attendant. Sheriff of the County. Officer of the Guard. French and English Lords. Soldiers. Servants of State belonging to ELIZABETH. Servants and Female Attendants of the Queen of Scots. <h2> ACT I. </h2> <h2> SCENE I. </h2> A common apartment in the Castle of Fotheringay. HANNAH KENNEDY, contending violently with PAULET, who is about to break open a closet; DRURY with an iron crown. KENNEDY. How now, sir? what fresh outrage have we here? Back from that cabinet! PAULET. Whence came the jewel? I know 'twas from an upper chamber thrown; And you would bribe the gardener with your trinkets. A curse on woman's wiles! In spite of all My strict precaution and my active search, Still treasures here, still costly gems concealed! And doubtless there are more where this lay hid. [Advancing towards the cabinet. KENNEDY. Intruder, back! here lie my lady's secrets. PAULET. Exactly what I seek. [Drawing forth papers. KENNEDY. Mere trifling papers; The amusements only of an idle pen, To cheat the dreary tedium of a dungeon. PAULET. In idle hours the evil mind is busy. KENNEDY. Those writings are in French. PAULET. So much the worse! That tongue betokens England's enemy. KENNEDY. Sketches of letters to the Queen of England. PAULET. I'll be their bearer. Ha! what glitters here? [He touches a secret spring, and draws out jewels from a private drawer. A royal diadem enriched with stones, And studded with the fleur-de-lis of France. [He hands it to his assistant. Here, take it, Drury; lay it with the rest. [Exit DRURY. [And ye have found the means to hide from us Such costly things, and screen them, until now, From our inquiring eyes?] KENNEDY. Oh, insolent And tyrant power, to which we must submit. PAULET. She can work ill as long as she hath treasures; For all things turn to weapons in her hands. KENNEDY (supplicating). Oh, sir! be merciful; deprive us not Of the last jewel that adorns our life! 'Tis my poor lady's only joy to view This symbol of her former majesty; Your hands long since have robbed us of the rest. PAULET. 'Tis in safe custody; in proper time 'Twill be restored to you with scrupulous care. KENNEDY. Who that beholds these naked walls could say That majesty dwelt here? Where is the throne? Where the imperial canopy of state? Must she not set her tender foot, still used To softest treading, on the rugged ground? With common pewter, which the lowliest dame Would scorn, they furnish forth her homely table. PAULET. Thus did she treat her spouse at Stirling once; And pledged, the while, her paramour in gold. KENNEDY. Even the mirror's trifling aid withheld. PAULET. The contemplation of her own vain image Incites to hope, and prompts to daring deeds. KENNEDY. Books are denied her to divert her mind. PAULET. The Bible still is left to mend her heart. KENNEDY. Even of her very lute she is deprived! PAULET. Because she tuned it to her wanton airs. KENNEDY. Is this a fate for her, the gentle born, Who in her very cradle was a queen? Who, reared in Catherine's luxurious court, Enjoyed the fulness of each earthly pleasure? Was't not enough to rob her of her power, Must ye then envy her its paltry tinsel? A noble heart in time resigns itself To great calamities with fortitude; But yet it cuts one to the soul to part At once with all life's little outward trappings! PAULET. These are the things that turn the human heart To vanity, which should collect itself In penitence; for a lewd, vicious life, Want and abasement are the only penance. KENNEDY. If youthful blood has led her into error, With her own heart and God she must account: There is no judge in England over her. PAULET. She shall have judgment where she hath transgressed. KENNEDY. Her narrow bonds restrain her from transgression. PAULET. And yet she found the means to stretch her arm Into the world, from out these narrow bonds, And, with the torch of civil war, inflame This realm against our queen (whom God preserve). And arm assassin bands. Did she not rouse From out these walls the malefactor Parry, And Babington, to the detested crime Of regicide? And did this iron grate Prevent her from decoying to her toils The virtuous heart of Norfolk? Saw we not The first, best head in all this island fall A sacrifice for her upon the block? [The noble house of Howard fell with him.] And did this sad example terrify These mad adventurers, whose rival zeal Plunges for her into this deep abyss? The bloody scaffold bends beneath the weight Of her new daily victims; and we ne'er Shall see an end till she herself, of all The guiltiest, be offered up upon it. Oh! curses on the day when England took This Helen to its hospitable arms. KENNEDY. Did England then receive her hospitably? Oh, hapless queen! who, since that fatal day When first she set her foot within this realm, And, as a suppliant—a fugitive— Came to implore protection from her sister, Has been condemned, despite the law of nations, And royal privilege, to weep away The fairest years of youth in prison walls. And now, when she hath suffered everything Which in imprisonment is hard and bitter, Is like a felon summoned to the bar, Foully accused, and though herself a queen, Constrained to plead for honor and for life. PAULET. She came amongst us as a murderess, Chased by her very subjects from a throne Which she had oft by vilest deeds disgraced. Sworn against England's welfare came she hither, To call the times of bloody Mary back, Betray our church to Romish tyranny, And sell our dear-bought liberties to France. Say, why disdained she to subscribe the treaty Of Edinborough—to resign her claim To England's crown—and with one single word, Traced by her pen, throw wide her prison gates? No:—she had rather live in vile confinement, And see herself ill-treated, than renounce The empty honors of her barren title. Why acts she thus? Because she trusts to wiles, And treacherous arts of base conspiracy; And, hourly plotting schemes of mischief, hopes To conquer, from her prison, all this isle. KENNEDY. You mock us, sir, and edge your cruelty With words of bitter scorn:—that she should form Such projects; she, who's here immured alive, To whom no sound of comfort, not a voice Of friendship comes from her beloved home; Who hath so long no human face beheld, Save her stern gaoler's unrelenting brows; Till now, of late, in your uncourteous cousin She sees a second keeper, and beholds Fresh bolts and bars against her multiplied. PAULET. No iron-grate is proof against her wiles. How do I know these bars are not filed through? How that this floor, these walls, that seem so strong Without, may not be hollow from within, And let in felon treachery when I sleep? Accursed office, that's intrusted to me, To guard this cunning mother of all ill! Fear scares me from my sleep; and in the night I, like a troubled spirit, roam and try The strength of every bolt, and put to proof Each guard's fidelity:—I see, with fear, The dawning of each morn, which may confirm My apprehensions:—yet, thank God, there's hope That all my fears will soon be at an end; For rather would I at the gates of hell Stand sentinel, and guard the devilish host Of damned souls, than this deceitful queen. KENNEDY. Here comes the queen. PAULET. Christ's image in her hand. Pride, and all worldly lusts within her heart. <h2> SCENE II. </h2> The same. Enter MARY, veiled, a crucifix in her hand. KENNEDY (hastening toward her). O gracious queen! they tread us under foot; No end of tyranny and base oppression; Each coming day heaps fresh indignities, New sufferings on thy royal head. MARY. Be calm— Say, what has happened? KENNEDY. See! thy cabinet Is forced—thy papers—and thy only treasure, Which with such pains we had secured, the last Poor remnant of thy bridal ornaments From France, is in his hands—naught now remains Of royal state—thou art indeed bereft! MARY. Compose yourself, my Hannah! and believe me, 'Tis not these baubles that can make a queen— Basely indeed they may behave to us, But they cannot debase us. I have learned To use myself to many a change in England; I can support this too. Sir, you have taken By force what I this very day designed To have delivered to you. There's a letter Amongst these papers for my royal sister Of England. Pledge me, sir, your word of honor, To give it to her majesty's own hands, And not to the deceitful care of Burleigh. PAULET. I shall consider what is best to do. MARY. Sir, you shall know its import. In this letter I beg a favor, a great favor of her,— That she herself will give me audience,—she Whom I have never seen. I have been summoned Before a court of men, whom I can ne'er Acknowledge as my peers—of men to whom My heart denies its confidence. The queen Is of my family, my rank, my sex; To her alone—a sister, queen, and woman— Can I unfold my heart. PAULET. Too oft, my lady, Have you intrusted both your fate and honor To men less worthy your esteem than these. MARY. I, in the letter, beg another favor, And surely naught but inhumanity Can here reject my prayer. These many years Have I, in prison, missed the church's comfort, The blessings of the sacraments—and she Who robs me of my freedom and my crown, Who seeks my very life, can never wish To shut the gates of heaven upon my soul. PAULET. Whene'er you wish, the dean shall wait upon you. MARY (interrupting him sharply). Talk to me not of deans. I ask the aid Of one of my own church—a Catholic priest. PAULET. [That is against the published laws of England. MARY. The laws of England are no rule for me. I am not England's subject; I have ne'er Consented to its laws, and will not bow Before their cruel and despotic sway. If 'tis your will, to the unheard-of rigor Which I have borne, to add this new oppression, I must submit to what your power ordains; Yet will I raise my voice in loud complaints.] I also wish a public notary, And secretaries, to prepare my will— My sorrows and my prison's wretchedness Prey on my life—my days, I fear, are numbered— I feel that I am near the gates of death. PAULET. These serious contemplations well become you. MARY. And know I then that some too ready hand May not abridge this tedious work of sorrow? I would indite my will and make disposal Of what belongs tome. PAULET. This liberty May be allowed to you, for England's queen Will not enrich herself by plundering you. MARY. I have been parted from my faithful women, And from my servants; tell me, where are they? What is their fate? I can indeed dispense At present with their service, but my heart Will feel rejoiced to know these faithful ones Are not exposed to suffering and to want! PAULET. Your servants have been cared for; [and again You shall behold whate'er is taken from you And all shall be restored in proper season.] [Going. MARY. And will you leave my presence thus again, And not relieve my fearful, anxious heart From the fell torments of uncertainty? Thanks to the vigilance of your hateful spies, I am divided from the world; no voice Can reach me through these prison-walls; my fate Lies in the hands of those who wish my ruin. A month of dread suspense is passed already Since when the forty high commissioners Surprised me in this castle, and erected, With most unseemly haste, their dread tribunal; They forced me, stunned, amazed, and unprepared, Without an advocate, from memory, Before their unexampled court, to answer Their weighty charges, artfully arranged. They came like ghosts,—like ghosts they disappeared, And since that day all mouths are closed to me. In vain I seek to construe from your looks Which hath prevailed—my cause's innocence And my friends' zeal—or my foes' cursed counsel. Oh, break this silence! let me know the worst; What have I still to fear, and what to hope. PAULET. Close your accounts with heaven. MARY. From heaven I hope For mercy, sir; and from my earthly judges I hope, and still expect, the strictest justice. PAULET. Justice, depend upon it, will be done you. MARY. Is the suit ended, sir? PAULET. I cannot tell. MARY. Am I condemned? PAULET. I cannot answer, lady. MARY. [Sir, a good work fears not the light of day. PAULET. The day will shine upon it, doubt it not.] MARY. Despatch is here the fashion. Is it meant The murderer shall surprise me, like the judges? PAULET. Still entertain that thought and he will find you Better prepared to meet your fate than they did. MARY (after a pause). Sir, nothing can surprise me which a court Inspired by Burleigh's hate and Hatton's zeal, Howe'er unjust, may venture to pronounce: But I have yet to learn how far the queen Will dare in execution of the sentence. PAULET. The sovereigns of England have no fear But for their conscience and their parliament. What justice hath decreed her fearless hand Will execute before the assembled world. <h2> SCENE III. </h2> The same. MORTIMER enters, and without paying attention to the QUEEN, addresses PAULET. MORTIMER. Uncle, you're sought for. [He retires in the same manner. The QUEEN remarks it, and turns towards PAULET, who is about to follow him. MARY. Sir, one favor more If you have aught to say to me—from you I can bear much—I reverence your gray hairs; But cannot bear that young man's insolence; Spare me in future his unmannered rudeness. PAULET. I prize him most for that which makes you hate him He is not, truly, one of those poor fools Who melt before a woman's treacherous tears. He has seen much—has been to Rheims and Paris, And brings us back his true old English heart. Lady, your cunning arts are lost on him. [Exit. <h2> SCENE IV. </h2> MARY, KENNEDY. KENNEDY. And dare the ruffian venture to your face Such language! Oh, 'tis hard—'tis past endurance. MARY (lost in reflection). In the fair moments of our former splendor We lent to flatterers a too willing ear;— It is but just, good Hannah, we should now Be forced to hear the bitter voice of censure. KENNEDY. So downcast, so depressed, my dearest lady! You, who before so gay, so full of hope, Were used to comfort me in my distress; More gracious were the task to check your mirth Than chide your heavy sadness. MARY. Well I know him— It is the bleeding Darnley's royal shade, Rising in anger from his darksome grave And never will he make his peace with me Until the measures of my woes be full. KENNEDY. What thoughts are these— MARY. Thou may'st forget it, Hannah; But I've a faithful memory—'tis this day Another wretched anniversary Of that regretted, that unhappy deed— Which I must celebrate with fast and penance. KENNEDY. Dismiss at length in peace this evil spirit. The penitence of many a heavy year, Of many a suffering, has atoned the deed; The church, which holds the key of absolution, Pardons the crime, and heaven itself's appeased. MARY. This long-atoned crime arises fresh And bleeding from its lightly-covered grave; My husband's restless spirit seeks revenge; No sacred bell can exorcise, no host In priestly hands dismiss it to his tomb. KENNEDY. You did not murder him; 'twas done by others. MARY. But it was known to me; I suffered it, And lured him with my smiles to death's embrace. KENNEDY. Your youth extenuates your guilt. You were Of tender years. MARY. So tender, yet I drew This heavy guilt upon my youthful head. KENNEDY. You were provoked by direst injuries, And by the rude presumption of the man, Whom out of darkness, like the hand of heaven, Your love drew forth, and raised above all others. Whom through your bridal chamber you conducted Up to your throne, and with your lovely self, And your hereditary crown, distinguished [Your work was his existence, and your grace Bedewed him like the gentle rains of heaven.] Could he forget that his so splendid lot Was the creation of your generous love? Yet did he, worthless as he was, forget it. With base suspicions, and with brutal manners, He wearied your affections, and became An object to you of deserved disgust: The illusion, which till now had overcast Your judgment, vanished; angrily you fled His foul embrace, and gave him up to scorn. And did he seek again to win your love? Your favor? Did he e'er implore your pardon? Or fall in deep repentance at your feet? No; the base wretch defied you; he, who was Your bounty's creature, wished to play your king, [And strove, through fear, to force your inclination.] Before your eyes he had your favorite singer, Poor Rizzio, murdered; you did but avenge With blood the bloody deed—— MARY. And bloodily, I fear, too soon 'twill be avenged on me: You seek to comfort me, and you condemn me. KENNEDY. You were, when you consented to this deed, No more yourself; belonged not to yourself; The madness of a frantic love possessed you, And bound you to a terrible seducer, The wretched Bothwell. That despotic man Ruled you with shameful, overbearing will, And with his philters and his hellish arts Inflamed your passions. MARY. All the arts he used Were man's superior strength and woman's weakness. KENNEDY. No, no, I say. The most pernicious spirits Of hell he must have summoned to his aid, To cast this mist before your waking senses. Your ear no more was open to the voice Of friendly warning, and your eyes were shut To decency; soft female bashfulness Deserted you; those cheeks, which were before The seat of virtuous, blushing modesty, Glowed with the flames of unrestrained desire. You cast away the veil of secrecy, And the flagitious daring of the man O'ercame your natural coyness: you exposed Your shame, unblushingly, to public gaze: You let the murderer, whom the people followed With curses, through the streets of Edinburgh, Before you bear the royal sword of Scotland In triumph. You begirt your parliament With armed bands; and by this shameless farce, There, in the very temple of great justice, You forced the judges of the land to clear The murderer of his guilt. You went still further— O God! MARY. Conclude—nay, pause not—say for this I gave my hand in marriage at the altar. KENNEDY. O let an everlasting silence veil That dreadful deed: the heart revolts at it. A crime to stain the darkest criminal! Yet you are no such lost one, that I know. I nursed your youth myself—your heart is framed For tender softness: 'tis alive to shame, And all your fault is thoughtless levity. Yes, I repeat it, there are evil spirits, Who sudden fix in man's unguarded breast Their fatal residence, and there delight To act their dev'lish deeds; then hurry back Unto their native hell, and leave behind Remorse and horror in the poisoned bosom. Since this misdeed, which blackens thus your life, You have done nothing ill; your conduct has Been pure; myself can witness your amendment. Take courage, then; with your own heart make peace. Whatever cause you have for penitence, You are not guilty here. Nor England's queen, Nor England's parliament can be your judge. Here might oppresses you: you may present Yourself before this self-created court With all the fortitude of innocence. MARY. I hear a step. KENNEDY. It is the nephew—In. <h2> SCENE V. </h2> The same. Enter MORTIMER, approaching cautiously. MORTIMER (to KENNEDY). Step to the door, and keep a careful watch, I have important business with the queen. MARY (with dignity). I charge thee, Hannah, go not hence—remain. MORTIMER. Fear not, my gracious lady—learn to know me. [He gives her a card. MARY (She examines it, and starts back astonished). Heavens! What is this? MORTIMER (to KENNEDY). Retire, good Kennedy; See that my uncle comes not unawares. MARY (to KENNEDY, who hesitates, and looks at the QUEEN inquiringly). Go in; do as he bids you. [KENNEDY retires with signs of wonder. <h2> SCENE VI. </h2> MARY, MORTIMER. MARY. From my uncle In France—the worthy Cardinal of Lorrain? [She reads. "Confide in Mortimer, who brings you this; You have no truer, firmer friend in England." [Looking at him with astonishment. Can I believe it? Is there no delusion To cheat my senses? Do I find a friend So near, when I conceived myself abandoned By the whole world? And find that friend in you, The nephew of my gaoler, whom I thought My most inveterate enemy? MORTIMER (kneeling). Oh, pardon, My gracious liege, for the detested mask, Which it has cost me pain enough to wear; Yet through such means alone have I the power To see you, and to bring you help and rescue. MARY. Arise, sir; you astonish me; I cannot So suddenly emerge from the abyss Of wretchedness to hope: let me conceive This happiness, that I may credit it. MORTIMER. Our time is brief: each moment I expect My uncle, whom a hated man attends; Hear, then, before his terrible commission Surprises you, how heaven prepares your rescue. MARY. You come in token of its wondrous power. MORTIMER. Allow me of myself to speak. MARY. Say on. MORTIMER. I scarce, my liege, had numbered twenty years, Trained in the path of strictest discipline And nursed in deadliest hate to papacy, When led by irresistible desire For foreign travel, I resolved to leave My country and its puritanic faith Far, far behind me: soon with rapid speed I flew through France, and bent my eager course On to the plains of far-famed Italy. 'Twas then the time of the great jubilee: And crowds of palmers filled the public roads; Each image was adorned with garlands; 'twas As if all human-kind were wandering forth In pilgrimage towards the heavenly kingdom. The tide of the believing multitude Bore me too onward, with resistless force, Into the streets of Rome. What was my wonder, As the magnificence of stately columns Rushed on my sight! the vast triumphal arches, The Colosseum's grandeur, with amazement Struck my admiring senses; the sublime Creative spirit held my soul a prisoner In the fair world of wonders it had framed. I ne'er had felt the power of art till now. The church that reared me hates the charms of sense; It tolerates no image, it adores But the unseen, the incorporeal word. What were my feelings, then, as I approached The threshold of the churches, and within, Heard heavenly music floating in the air: While from the walls and high-wrought roofs there streamed Crowds of celestial forms in endless train— When the Most High, Most Glorious pervaded My captivated sense in real presence! And when I saw the great and godlike visions, The Salutation, the Nativity, The Holy Mother, and the Trinity's Descent, the luminous transfiguration And last the holy pontiff, clad in all The glory of his office, bless the people! Oh! what is all the pomp of gold and jewels With which the kings of earth adorn themselves! He is alone surrounded by the Godhead; His mansion is in truth an heavenly kingdom, For not of earthly moulding are these forms! MARY. O spare me, sir! No further. Spread no more Life's verdant carpet out before my eyes, Remember I am wretched, and a prisoner. MORTIMER. I was a prisoner, too, my queen; but swift My prison-gates flew open, when at once My spirit felt its liberty, and hailed The smiling dawn of life. I learned to burst Each narrow prejudice of education, To crown my brow with never-fading wreaths, And mix my joy with the rejoicing crowd. Full many noble Scots, who saw my zeal, Encouraged me, and with the gallant French They kindly led me to your princely uncle, The Cardinal of Guise. Oh, what a man! How firm, how clear, how manly, and how great! Born to control the human mind at will! The very model of a royal priest; A ruler of the church without an equal! MARY. You've seen him then,—the much loved, honored man, Who was the guardian of my tender years! Oh, speak of him! Does he remember me? Does fortune favor him? And prospers still His life? And does he still majestic stand, A very rock and pillar of the church? MORTIMER. The holy man descended from his height, And deigned to teach me the important creed Of the true church, and dissipate my doubts. He showed me how the glimmering light of reason Serves but to lead us to eternal error: That what the heart is called on to believe The eye must see: that he who rules the church Must needs be visible; and that the spirit Of truth inspired the councils of the fathers. How vanished then the fond imaginings And weak conceptions of my childish soul Before his conquering judgment, and the soft Persuasion of his tongue! So I returned Back to the bosom of the holy church, And at his feet abjured my heresies. MARY. Then of those happy thousands you are one, Whom he, with his celestial eloquence, Like the immortal preacher of the mount, Has turned and led to everlasting joy! MORTIMER. The duties of his office called him soon To France, and I was sent by him to Rheims, Where, by the Jesuits' anxious labor, priests Are trained to preach our holy faith in England. There, 'mongst the Scots, I found the noble Morgan, And your true Lesley, Ross's learned bishop, Who pass in France their joyless days of exile. I joined with heartfelt zeal these worthy men, And fortified my faith. As I one day Roamed through the bishop's dwelling, I was struck With a fair female portrait; it was full Of touching wond'rous charms; with magic might It moved my inmost soul, and there I stood Speechless, and overmastered by my feelings. "Well," cried the bishop, "may you linger thus In deep emotion near this lovely face! For the most beautiful of womankind, Is also matchless in calamity. She is a prisoner for our holy faith, And in your native land, alas! she suffers." [MARY is in great agitation. He pauses. MARY. Excellent man! All is not lost, indeed, While such a friend remains in my misfortunes! MORTIMER. Then he began, with moving eloquence, To paint the sufferings of your martyrdom; He showed me then your lofty pedigree, And your descent from Tudor's royal house. He proved to me that you alone have right To reign in England, not this upstart queen, The base-born fruit of an adult'rous bed, Whom Henry's self rejected as a bastard. [He from my eyes removed delusion's mist, And taught me to lament you as a victim, To honor you as my true queen, whom I, Deceived, like thousands of my noble fellows, Had ever hated as my country's foe.] I would not trust his evidence alone; I questioned learned doctors; I consulted The most authentic books of heraldry; And every man of knowledge whom I asked Confirmed to me your claim's validity. And now I know that your undoubted right To England's throne has been your only wrong, This realm is justly yours by heritage, In which you innocently pine as prisoner. MARY. Oh, this unhappy right!—'tis this alone Which is the source of all my sufferings. MORTIMER. Just at this time the tidings reached my ears Of your removal from old Talbot's charge, And your committal to my uncle's care. It seemed to me that this disposal marked The wond'rous, outstretched hand of favoring heaven; It seemed to be a loud decree of fate, That it had chosen me to rescue you. My friends concur with me; the cardinal Bestows on me his counsel and his blessing, And tutors me in the hard task of feigning. The plan in haste digested, I commenced My journey homewards, and ten days ago On England's shores I landed. Oh, my queen. [He pauses. I saw then, not your picture, but yourself— Oh, what a treasure do these walls enclose! No prison this, but the abode of gods, More splendid far than England's royal court. Happy, thrice happy he, whose envied lot Permits to breathe the selfsame air with you! It is a prudent policy in her To bury you so deep! All England's youth Would rise at once in general mutiny, And not a sword lie quiet in its sheath: Rebellion would uprear its giant head, Through all this peaceful isle, if Britons once Beheld their captive queen. MARY. 'Twere well with her, If every Briton saw her with your eyes! MORTIMER. Were each, like me, a witness of your wrongs, Your meekness, and the noble fortitude With which you suffer these indignities— Would you not then emerge from all these trials Like a true queen? Your prison's infamy, Hath it despoiled your beauty of its charms? You are deprived of all that graces life, Yet round you life and light eternal beam. Ne'er on this threshold can I set my foot, That my poor heart with anguish is not torn, Nor ravished with delight at gazing on you. Yet fearfully the fatal time draws near, And danger hourly growing presses on. I can delay no longer—can no more Conceal the dreadful news. MARY. My sentence then! It is pronounced? Speak freely—I can bear it. MORTIMER. It is pronounced! The two-and-forty judges Have given the verdict, "guilty"; and the Houses Of Lords and Commons, with the citizens Of London, eagerly and urgently Demand the execution of the sentence:— The queen alone still craftily delays, That she may be constrained to yield, but not From feelings of humanity or mercy. MARY (collected). Sir, I am not surprised, nor terrified. I have been long prepared for such a message. Too well I know my judges. After all Their cruel treatment I can well conceive They dare not now restore my liberty. I know their aim: they mean to keep me here In everlasting bondage, and to bury, In the sepulchral darkness of my prison, My vengeance with me, and my rightful claims. MORTIMER. Oh, no, my gracious queen;—they stop not there: Oppression will not be content to do Its work by halves:—as long as e'en you live, Distrust and fear will haunt the English queen. No dungeon can inter you deep enough; Your death alone can make her throne secure. MARY. Will she then dare, regardless of the shame, Lay my crowned head upon the fatal block? MORTIMER. She will most surely dare it, doubt it not. MARY. And can she thus roll in the very dust Her own, and every monarch's majesty? MORTIMER. She thinks on nothing now but present danger, Nor looks to that which is so far removed. MARY. And fears she not the dread revenge of France? MORTIMER. With France she makes an everlasting peace; And gives to Anjou's duke her throne and hand. MARY. Will not the King of Spain rise up in arms? MORTIMER. She fears not a collected world in arms? If with her people she remains at peace. MARY. Were this a spectacle for British eyes? MORTIMER. This land, my queen, has, in these latter days, Seen many a royal woman from the throne Descend and mount the scaffold:—her own mother And Catherine Howard trod this fatal path; And was not Lady Grey a crowned head? MARY (after a pause). No, Mortimer, vain fears have blinded you; 'Tis but the honest care of your true heart, Which conjures up these empty apprehensions. It is not, sir, the scaffold that I fear: There are so many still and secret means By which her majesty of England may Set all my claims to rest. Oh, trust me, ere An executioner is found for me, Assassins will be hired to do their work. 'Tis that which makes me tremble, Mortimer: I never lift the goblet to my lips Without an inward shuddering, lest the draught May have been mingled by my sister's love. MORTIMER. No:—neither open or disguised murder Shall e'er prevail against you:—fear no more; All is prepared;—twelve nobles of the land Are my confederates, and have pledged to-day, Upon the sacrament, their faith to free you, With dauntless arm, from this captivity. Count Aubespine, the French ambassador, Knows of our plot, and offers his assistance: 'Tis in his palace that we hold our meetings. NARY. You make me tremble, sir, but not for joy! An evil boding penetrates my heart. Know you, then, what you risk? Are you not scared By Babington and Tichburn's bloody heads, Set up as warnings upon London's bridge? Nor by the ruin of those many victims Who have, in such attempts, found certain death, And only made my chains the heavier? Fly hence, deluded, most unhappy youth! Fly, if there yet be time for you, before That crafty spy, Lord Burleigh, track your schemes, And mix his traitors in your secret plots. Fly hence:—as yet, success hath never smiled On Mary Stuart's champions. <div class="fig"> <ANTIMG alt="3pb024 (123K)" src="images/3pb024.jpg" width-obs="100%" /> </div> MORTIMER. I am not scared By Babington and Tichburn's bloody heads Set up as warnings upon London's bridge; Nor by the ruin of those many victims Who have, in such attempts, found certain death: They also found therein immortal honor, And death, in rescuing you, is dearest bliss. MARY. It is in vain: nor force nor guile can save me:— My enemies are watchful, and the power Is in their hands. It is not Paulet only And his dependent host; all England guards My prison gates: Elizabeth's free will Alone can open them. MORTIMER. Expect not that. MARY. One man alone on earth can open them. MORTIMER. Oh, let me know his name! MARY. Lord Leicester. MORTIMER. He! [Starts back in wonder. The Earl of Leicester! Your most bloody foe, The favorite of Elizabeth! through him—— MARY. If I am to be saved at all, 'twill be Through him, and him alone. Go to him, sir; Freely confide in him: and, as a proof You come from me, present this paper to him. [She takes a paper from her bosom; MORTIMER draws back, and hesitates to take it. It doth contain my portrait:—take it, sir; I've borne it long about me; but your uncle's Close watchfulness has cut me off from all Communication with him;—you were sent By my good angel. [He takes it. MORTIMER. Oh, my queen! Explain This mystery. MARY. Lord Leicester will resolve it. Confide in him, and he'll confide in you. Who comes? KENNEDY (entering hastily). 'Tis Paulet; and he brings with him A nobleman from court. MORTIMER. It is Lord Burleigh. Collect yourself, my queen, and strive to hear The news he brings with equanimity. [He retires through a side door, and KENNEDY follows him. <h2> SCENE VII. </h2> Enter LORD BURLEIGH, and PAULET. PAULET (to MARY). You wished to-day assurance of your fate; My Lord of Burleigh brings it to you now; Hear it with resignation, as beseems you. MARY. I hope with dignity, as it becomes My innocence, and my exalted station. BURLEIGH. I come deputed from the court of justice. MARY. Lord Burleigh lends that court his willing tongue, Which was already guided by his spirit. PAULET. You speak as if no stranger to the sentence. MARY. Lord Burleigh brings it; therefore do I know it. PAULET. [It would become you better, Lady Stuart, To listen less to hatred. MARY. I but name My enemy: I said not that I hate him.] But to the matter, sir. BURLEIGH. You have acknowledged The jurisdiction of the two-and-forty. MARY. My lord, excuse me, if I am obliged So soon to interrupt you. I acknowledged, Say you, the competence of the commission? I never have acknowledged it, my lord; How could I so? I could not give away My own prerogative, the intrusted rights Of my own people, the inheritance Of my own son, and every monarch's honor [The very laws of England say I could not.] It is enacted by the English laws That every one who stands arraigned of crime Shall plead before a jury of his equals: Who is my equal in this high commission? Kings only are my peers. BURLEIGH. But yet you heard The points of accusation, answered them Before the court—— MARY. 'Tis true, I was deceived By Hatton's crafty counsel:—he advised me, For my own honor, and in confidence In my good cause, and my most strong defence, To listen to the points of accusation, And prove their falsehoods. This, my lord, I did From personal respect for the lords' names, Not their usurped charge, which I disclaim. BURLEIGH. Acknowledge you the court, or not, that is Only a point of mere formality, Which cannot here arrest the course of justice. You breathe the air of England; you enjoy The law's protection, and its benefits; You therefore are its subject. MARY. Sir, I breathe The air within an English prison walls: Is that to live in England; to enjoy Protection from its laws? I scarcely know And never have I pledged my faith to keep them. I am no member of this realm; I am An independent, and a foreign queen. BURLEIGH. And do you think that the mere name of queen Can serve you as a charter to foment In other countries, with impunity, This bloody discord? Where would be the state's Security, if the stern sword of justice Could not as freely smite the guilty brow Of the imperial stranger as the beggar's? MARY. I do not wish to be exempt from judgment, It is the judges only I disclaim. BURLEIGH. The judges? How now, madam? Are they then Base wretches, snatched at hazard from the crowd? Vile wranglers that make sale of truth and justice; Oppression's willing hirelings, and its tools? Are they not all the foremost of this land, Too independent to be else than honest, And too exalted not to soar above The fear of kings, or base servility? Are they not those who rule a generous people In liberty and justice; men, whose names I need but mention to dispel each doubt, Each mean suspicion which is raised against them? Stands not the reverend primate at their head, The pious shepherd of his faithful people, The learned Talbot, keeper of the seals, And Howard, who commands our conquering fleets? Say, then, could England's sovereign do more Than, out of all the monarchy, elect The very noblest, and appoint them judges In this great suit? And were it probable That party hatred could corrupt one heart; Can forty chosen men unite to speak A sentence just as passion gives command? MARY (after a short pause). I am struck dumb by that tongue's eloquence, Which ever was so ominous to me. And how shall I, a weak, untutored woman, Cope with so subtle, learned an orator? Yes truly; were these lords as you describe them, I must be mute; my cause were lost indeed, Beyond all hope, if they pronounce me guilty. But, sir, these names, which you are pleased to praise, These very men, whose weight you think will crush me, I see performing in the history Of these dominions very different parts: I see this high nobility of England, This grave majestic senate of the realm, Like to an eastern monarch's vilest slaves, Flatter my uncle Henry's sultan fancies: I see this noble, reverend House of Lords, Venal alike with the corrupted Commons, Make statutes and annul them, ratify A marriage and dissolve it, as the voice Of power commands: to-day it disinherits, And brands the royal daughters of the realm With the vile name of bastards, and to-morrow Crowns them as queens, and leads them to the throne. I see them in four reigns, with pliant conscience, Four times abjure their faith; renounce the pope With Henry, yet retain the old belief; Reform themselves with Edward; hear the mass Again with Mary; with Elizabeth, Who governs now, reform themselves again. BURLEIGH. You say you are not versed in England's laws, You seem well read, methinks, in her disasters. MARY. And these men are my judges? [As LORD BURLEIGH seems to wish to speak. My lord treasurer, Towards you I will be just, be you but just To me. 'Tis said that you consult with zeal The good of England, and of England's queen; Are honest, watchful, indefatigable; I will believe it. Not your private ends, Your sovereign and your country's weal alone, Inspire your counsels and direct your deeds. Therefore, my noble lord, you should the more Distrust your heart; should see that you mistake not The welfare of the government for justice. I do not doubt, besides yourself, there are Among my judges many upright men: But they are Protestants, are eager all For England's quiet, and they sit in judgment On me, the Queen of Scotland, and the papist. It is an ancient saying, that the Scots And England to each other are unjust; And hence the rightful custom that a Scot Against an Englishman, or Englishman Against a Scot, cannot be heard in judgment. Necessity prescribed this cautious law; Deep policy oft lies in ancient customs: My lord, we must respect them. Nature cast Into the ocean these two fiery nations Upon this plank, and she divided it Unequally, and bade them fight for it. The narrow bed of Tweed alone divides These daring spirits; often hath the blood Of the contending parties dyed its waves. Threatening, and sword in hand, these thousand years, From both its banks they watch their rival's motions, Most vigilant and true confederates, With every enemy of the neighbor state. No foe oppresses England, but the Scot Becomes his firm ally; no civil war Inflames the towns of Scotland, but the English Add fuel to the fire: this raging hate Will never be extinguished till, at last, One parliament in concord shall unite them, One common sceptre rule throughout the isle. BURLEIGH. And from a Stuart, then, should England hope This happiness? MARY. Oh! why should I deny it? Yes, I confess, I cherished the fond hope; I thought myself the happy instrument To join in freedom, 'neath the olive's shade, Two generous realms in lasting happiness! I little thought I should become the victim Of their old hate, their long-lived jealousy; And the sad flames of that unhappy strife, I hoped at last to smother, and forever: And, as my ancestor, great Richmond, joined The rival roses after bloody contest, To join in peace the Scotch and English crowns. BURLEIGH. An evil way you took to this good end, To set the realm on fire, and through the flames Of civil war to strive to mount the throne. MARY. I wished not that:—I wished it not, by Heaven! When did I strive at that? Where are your proofs? BURLEIGH. I came not hither to dispute; your cause Is no more subject to a war of words. The great majority of forty voices Hath found that you have contravened the law Last year enacted, and have now incurred Its penalty. [Producing the verdict. MARY. Upon this statute, then, My lord, is built the verdict of my judges? BURLEIGH (reading). Last year it was enacted, "If a plot Henceforth should rise in England, in the name Or for the benefit of any claimant To England's crown, that justice should be done On such pretender, and the guilty party Be prosecuted unto death." Now, since It has been proved—— MARY. Lord Burleigh, I can well Imagine that a law expressly aimed At me, and framed to compass my destruction May to my prejudice be used. Oh! Woe To the unhappy victim, when the tongue That frames the law shall execute the sentence. Can you deny it, sir, that this same statute Was made for my destruction, and naught else? BURLEIGH. It should have acted as a warning to you: By your imprudence it became a snare. You saw the precipice which yawned before you; Yet, truly warned, you plunged into the deep. With Babington, the traitor, and his bands Of murderous companions, were you leagued. You knew of all, and from your prison led Their treasonous plottings with a deep-laid plan. MARY. When did I that, my lord? Let them produce The documents. BURLEIGH. You have already seen them They were before the court, presented to you. MARY. Mere copies written by another hand; Show me the proof that they were dictated By me, that they proceeded from my lips, And in those very terms in which you read them. BURLEIGH. Before his execution, Babington Confessed they were the same which he received. MARY. Why was he in his lifetime not produced Before my face? Why was he then despatched So quickly that he could not be confronted With her whom he accused? BURLEIGH. Besides, my lady, Your secretaries, Curl and Nau, declare On oath, they are the very selfsame letters Which from your lips they faithfully transcribed. MARY. And on my menials' testimony, then, I am condemned; upon the word of those Who have betrayed me, me, their rightful queen! Who in that very moment, when they came As witnesses against me, broke their faith! BURLEIGH. You said yourself, you held your countryman To be an upright, conscientious man. MARY. I thought him such; but 'tis the hour of danger Alone, which tries the virtue of a man. [He ever was an honest man, but weak In understanding; and his subtle comrade, Whose faith, observe, I never answered for, Might easily seduce him to write down More than he should;] the rack may have compelled him To say and to confess more than he knew. He hoped to save himself by this false witness, And thought it could not injure me—a queen. BURLEIGH. The oath he swore was free and unconstrained. MARY. But not before my face! How now, my lord? The witnesses you name are still alive; Let them appear against me face to face, And there repeat what they have testified. Why am I then denied that privilege, That right which e'en the murderer enjoys? I know from Talbot's mouth, my former keeper, That in this reign a statute has been passed Which orders that the plaintiff be confronted With the defendant; is it so, good Paulet? I e'er have known you as an honest man; Now prove it to me; tell me, on your conscience, If such a law exist or not in England? PAULET. Madam, there does: that is the law in England. I must declare the truth. MARY. Well, then, my lord, If I am treated by the law of England So hardly, when that law oppresses me, Say, why avoid this selfsame country's law, When 'tis for my advantage? Answer me; Why was not Babington confronted with me? Why not my servants, who are both alive? BURLEIGH. Be not so hasty, lady; 'tis not only Your plot with Babington—— MARY. 'Tis that alone Which arms the law against me; that alone From which I'm called upon to clear myself. Stick to the point, my lord; evade it not. BURLEIGH. It has been proved that you have corresponded With the ambassador of Spain, Mendoza—— MARY. Stick to the point, my lord. BURLEIGH. That you have formed Conspiracies to overturn the fixed Religion of the realm; that you have called Into this kingdom foreign powers, and roused All kings in Europe to a war with England. MARY. And were it so, my lord—though I deny it— But e'en suppose it were so: I am kept Imprisoned here against all laws of nations. I came not into England sword in hand; I came a suppliant; and at the hands Of my imperial kinswoman I claimed The sacred rights of hospitality, When power seized upon me, and prepared To rivet fetters where I hoped protection. Say, is my conscience bound, then, to this realm? What are the duties that I owe to England? I should but exercise a sacred right, Derived from sad necessity, if I Warred with these bonds, encountered might with might, Roused and incited every state in Europe For my protection to unite in arms. Whatever in a rightful war is just And loyal, 'tis my right to exercise: Murder alone, the secret, bloody deed, My conscience and my pride alike forbid. Murder would stain me, would dishonor me: Dishonor me, my lord, but not condemn me, Nor subject me to England's courts of law: For 'tis not justice, but mere violence, Which is the question 'tween myself and England. BURLEIGH (significantly). Talk not, my lady, of the dreadful right Of power: 'tis seldom on the prisoner's side. MARY. I am the weak, she is the mighty one: 'Tis well, my lord; let her, then, use her power; Let her destroy me; let me bleed, that she May live secure; but let her, then, confess That she hath exercised her power alone, And not contaminate the name of justice. Let her not borrow from the laws the sword To rid her of her hated enemy; Let her not clothe in this religious garb The bloody daring of licentious might; Let not these juggling tricks deceive the world. [Returning the sentence. Though she may murder me, she cannot judge me: Let her no longer strive to join the fruits Of vice with virtue's fair and angel show; But let her dare to seem the thing she is. [Exit. <h2> SCENE VIII. </h2> BURLEIGH, PAULET. BURLEIGH. She scorns us, she defies us! will defy us, Even at the scaffold's foot. This haughty heart Is not to be subdued. Say, did the sentence Surprise her? Did you see her shed one tear, Or even change her color? She disdains To make appeal to our compassion. Well She knows the wavering mind of England's queen. Our apprehensions make her bold. PAULET. My lord, Take the pretext away which buoys it up, And you shall see this proud defiance fail That very moment. I must say, my lord, Irregularities have been allowed In these proceedings; Babington and Ballard Should have been brought, with her two secretaries, Before her, face to face. BURLEIGH. No, Paulet, no. That was not to be risked; her influence Upon the human heart is too supreme; Too strong the female empire of her tears. Her secretary, Curl, if brought before her, And called upon to speak the weighty word On which her life depends, would straight shrink back And fearfully revoke his own confession. PAULET. Then England's enemies will fill the world With evil rumors; and the formal pomp Of these proceedings to the minds of all Will only signalize an act of outrage. BURLEIGH. That is the greatest torment of our queen, [That she can never 'scape the blame. Oh God!] Had but this lovely mischief died before She set her faithless foot on English ground. PAULET. Amen, say I! BURLEIGH. Had sickness but consumed her! PAULET. England had been secured from such misfortune. BURLEIGH. And yet, if she had died in nature's course, The world would still have called us murderers. PAULET. 'Tis true, the world will think, despite of us, Whate'er it list. BURLEIGH. Yet could it not be proved? And it would make less noise. PAULET. Why, let it make What noise it may. It is not clamorous blame, 'Tis righteous censure only which can wound. BURLEIGH. We know that holy justice cannot 'scape The voice of censure; and the public cry Is ever on the side of the unhappy: Envy pursues the laurelled conqueror; The sword of justice, which adorns the man, Is hateful in a woman's hand; the world Will give no credit to a woman's justice If woman be the victim. Vain that wo, The judges, spoke what conscience dictated; She has the royal privilege of mercy; She must exert it: 'twere not to be borne, Should she let justice take its full career. PAULET. And therefore—— BURLEIGH. Therefore should she live? Oh, no, She must not live; it must not be. 'Tis this, Even this, my friend, which so disturbs the queen, And scares all slumber from her couch; I read Her soul's distracting contest in her eyes: She fears to speak her wishes, yet her looks, Her silent looks, significantly ask, "Is there not one amongst my many servants To save me from this sad alternative? Either to tremble in eternal fear Upon my throne, or else to sacrifice A queen of my own kindred on the block?" PAULET. 'Tis even so; nor can it be avoided—— BURLEIGH. Well might it be avoided, thinks the queen, If she had only more attentive servants. PAULET. How more attentive? BURLEIGH. Such as could interpret A silent mandate. PAULET. What? A silent mandate! BURLEIGH. Who, when a poisonous adder is delivered Into their hands, would keep the treacherous charge As if it were a sacred, precious jewel? PAULET. A precious jewel is the queen's good name And spotless reputation: good my lord, One cannot guard it with sufficient care. BURLEIGH. When out of Shrewsbury's hands the Queen of Scots Was trusted to Sir Amias Paulet's care, The meaning was—— PAULET. I hope to God, my lord, The meaning was to give the weightiest charge Into the purest hands; my lord, my lord! By heaven I had disdained this bailiff's office Had I not thought the service claimed the care Of the best man that England's realm can boast. Let me not think I am indebted for it To anything but my unblemished name. BURLEIGH. Spread the report she wastes; grows sicker still And sicker; and expires at last in peace; Thus will she perish in the world's remembrance, And your good name is pure. PAULET. But not my conscience. BURLEIGH. Though you refuse us, sir, your own assistance, You will not sure prevent another's hand. PAULET. No murderer's foot shall e'er approach her threshold Whilst she's protected by my household gods. Her life's a sacred trust; to me the head Of Queen Elizabeth is not more sacred. Ye are the judges; judge, and break the staff; And when 'tis time then let the carpenter With axe and saw appear to build the scaffold. My castle's portals shall be open to him, The sheriff and the executioners: Till then she is intrusted to my care; And be assured I will fulfil my trust, She shall nor do nor suffer what's unjust. [Exeunt. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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