No More Learning

I am constrained----

SHREWSBURY.
Who can constrain thee? Thou art Queen of England,
Here must thy majesty assert its rights:
Command those savage voices to be silent,
Who take upon themselves to put constraint
Upon thy royal will, to rule thy judgment.
Fear only, blind conjecture, moves thy people;
Thou art thyself beside thyself; thy wrath
Is grievously provoked: thou art but mortal,
And canst not thus ascend the judgment seat.

BURLEIGH.
Judgment has long been past. It is not now
The time to speak but execute the sentence.

KENT (who upon SHREWSBURY'S entry had retired, comes back).
The tumult gains apace; there are no means
To moderate the people.

ELIZABETH (to SHREWSBURY).
See, my lord,
How they press on.

SHREWSBURY.
I only ask a respite;
A single word traced by thy hand decides
The peace, the happiness of all thy life!
Thou hast for years considered, let not then
A moment ruled by passion hurry thee--
But a short respite--recollect thyself!
Wait for a moment of tranquillity.

BURLEIGH (violently).
Wait for it--pause--delay--till flames of fire
Consume the realm; until the fifth attempt
Of murder be successful! God, indeed,
Hath thrice delivered thee; thy late escape
Was marvellous, and to expect again
A miracle would be to tempt thy God!

SHREWSBURY.
That God, whose potent hand hath thrice preserved thee,
Who lent my aged feeble arm its strength
To overcome the madman:--he deserves
Thy confidence. I will not raise the voice
Of justice now, for now is not the time;
Thou canst not hear it in this storm of passion.
Yet listen but to this! Thou tremblest now
Before this living Mary--tremble rather
Before the murdered, the beheaded Mary.
She will arise, and quit her grave, will range
A fiend of discord, an avenging ghost,
Around thy realm, and turn thy people's hearts
From their allegiance. For as yet the Britons
Hate her, because they fear her; but most surely
Will they avenge her when she is no more.
They will no more behold the enemy
Of their belief, they will but see in her
The much-lamented issue of their kings
A sacrifice to jealousy and hate.
Then quickly shalt thou see the sudden change
When thou hast done the bloody deed; then go
Through London, seek thy people, which till now
Around thee swarmed delighted; thou shalt see
Another England, and another people;
For then no more the godlike dignity
Of justice, which subdued thy subjects' hearts,
Will beam around thee. Fear, the dread ally
Of tyranny, will shuddering march before thee,
And make a wilderness in every street--
The last, extremest crime thou hast committed.
What head is safe, if the anointed fall?

ELIZABETH.
Ah! Shrewsbury, you saved my life, you turned
The murderous steel aside; why let you not
The dagger take its course? then all these broils
Would have been ended; then, released from doubt,
And free from blame, I should be now at rest
In my still, peaceful grave. In very sooth
I'm weary of my life, and of my crown.
If Heaven decree that one of us two queens
Must perish, to secure the other's life--
And sure it must be so--why should not I
Be she who yields? My people must decide;
I give them back the sovereignty they gave.
God is my witness that I have not lived
For my own sake, but for my people's welfare.
If they expect from this false, fawning Stuart,
The younger sovereign, more happy days,
I will descend with pleasure from the throne,
Again repair to Woodstock's quiet bowers,
Where once I spent my unambitious youth;
Where far removed from all the vanities
Of earthly power, I found within myself
True majesty. I am not made to rule--
A ruler should be made of sterner stuff:
My heart is soft and tender. I have governed
These many years this kingdom happily,
But then I only needed to make happy:
Now, comes my first important regal duty,
And now I feel how weak a thing I am.

BURLEIGH.
Now by mine honor, when I hear my queen,
My royal liege, speak such unroyal words,
I should betray my office, should betray
My country, were I longer to be silent.
You say you love your people 'bove yourself,
Now prove it. Choose not peace for your own heart,
And leave your kingdom to the storms of discord.
Think on the church. Shall, with this papist queen
The ancient superstition be renewed?
The monk resume his sway, the Roman legate
In pomp march hither; lock our churches up,
Dethrone our monarchs? I demand of you
The souls of all your subjects--as you now
Shall act, they all are saved, or all are lost!
Here is no time for mercy;--to promote
Your people's welfare is your highest duty.
If Shrewsbury has saved your life, then I
Will save both you and England--that is more!

ELIZABETH.
I would be left alone. No consolation,
No counsel can be drawn from human aid
In this conjecture:--I will lay my doubts
Before the Judge of all:--I am resolved
To act as He shall teach. Withdraw, my lords.

[To DAVISON, who lays the paper on the table.

You, sir, remain in waiting--close at hand.

[The lords withdraw, SHREWSBURY alone stands
for a few moments before the QUEEN, regards her
significantly, then withdraws slowly, and with
an expression of the deepest anguish.



SCENE X.

ELIZABETH alone.

Oh! servitude of popularity!
Disgraceful slavery! How weary am I
Of flattering this idol, which my soul
Despises in its inmost depth! Oh! when
Shall I once more be free upon this throne?
I must respect the people's voice, and strive
To win the favor of the multitude,
And please the fancies of a mob, whom naught
But jugglers' tricks delight. O call not him
A king who needs must please the world: 'tis he
Alone, who in his actions does not heed
The fickle approbation of mankind.
Have I then practised justice, all my life
Shunned each despotic deed; have I done this
Only to bind my hands against this first,
This necessary act of violence?
My own example now condemns myself!
Had I but been a tyrant, like my sister,
My predecessor, I could fearless then
Have shed this royal blood:--but am I now
Just by my own free choice? No--I was forced
By stern necessity to use this virtue;
Necessity, which binds e'en monarch's wills.
Surrounded by my foes, my people's love
Alone supports me on my envied throne.
All Europe's powers confederate to destroy me;
The pope's inveterate decree declares me
Accursed and excommunicated. France
Betrays me with a kiss, and Spain prepares
At sea a fierce exterminating war;
Thus stand I, in contention with the world,
A poor defenceless woman: I must seek
To veil the spot in my imperial birth,
By which my father cast disgrace upon me:
In vain with princely virtues would I hide it;
The envious hatred of my enemies
Uncovers it, and places Mary Stuart,
A threatening fiend, before me evermore!

[Walking up and down, with quick and agitated steps.

Oh, no! this fear must end. Her head must fall!
I will have peace. She is the very fury
Of my existence; a tormenting demon,
Which destiny has fastened on my soul.
Wherever I had planted me a comfort,
A flattering hope, my way was ever crossed
By this infernal viper! She has torn
My favorite, and my destined bridegroom from me.
The hated name of every ill I feel
Is Mary Stuart--were but she no more
On earth I should be free as mountain air.

[Standing still.

With what disdain did she look down on me,
As if her eye should blast me like the lightning!
Poor feeble wretch! I bear far other arms,
Their touch is mortal, and thou art no more.

[Advancing to the table hastily, and taking the pen.

I am a bastard, am I? Hapless wretch,
I am but so the while thou liv'st and breath'st.
Thy death will make my birth legitimate.
The moment I destroy thee is the doubt
Destroyed which hangs o'er my imperial right.
As soon as England has no other choice,
My mother's honor and my birthright triumphs!

[She signs with resolution; lets her pen then fall,
and steps back with an expression of terror. After
a pause she rings.



SCENE XI.

ELIZABETH, DAVISON.

ELIZABETH.
Where are their lordships?

DAVISON.
They are gone to quell
The tumult of the people. The alarm
Was instantly appeased when they beheld
The Earl of Shrewsbury. That's he! exclaimed
A hundred voices--that's the man--he saved
The queen; hear him--the bravest man in England!
And now began the gallant Talbot, blamed
In gentle words the people's violence,
And used such strong, persuasive eloquence,
That all were pacified, and silently
They slunk away.

ELIZABETH.
The fickle multitude!
Which turns with every wind. Unhappy he
Who leans upon this reed! 'Tis well, Sir William;
You may retire again----
[As he is going towards the door.
And, sir, this paper,
Receive it back; I place it in your hands.

DAVISON (casts a look upon the paper, and starts back).
My gracious queen--thy name! 'tis then decided.

ELIZABETH.
I had but to subscribe it--I have done so--
A paper sure cannot decide--a name
Kills not.

DAVISON.
Thy name, my queen, beneath this paper
Is most decisive--kills--'tis like the lightning,
Which blasteth as it flies! This fatal scroll
Commands the sheriff and commissioners
To take departure straight for Fotheringay,
And to the Queen of Scots announce her death,
Which must at dawn be put in execution.
There is no respite, no discretion here.
As soon as I have parted with this writ
Her race is run.

ELIZABETH.
Yes, sir, the Lord has placed
This weighty business in your feeble hands;
Seek him in prayer to light you with his wisdom;
I go--and leave you, sir, to do your duty.

[Going.

DAVISON.
No; leave me not, my queen, till I have heard
Your will. The only wisdom that I need
Is, word for word, to follow your commands.
Say, have you placed this warrant in my hands
To see that it be speedily enforced?

ELIZABETH.
That you must do as your own prudence dictates.

DAVISON (interrupting her quickly, and alarmed).
Not mine--oh, God forbid! Obedience is
My only prudence here. No point must now
Be left to be decided by your servant.
A small mistake would here be regicide,
A monstrous crime, from which my soul recoils.
Permit me, in this weighty act, to be
Your passive instrument, without a will:--
Tell me in plain, undoubted terms your pleasure,
What with the bloody mandate I should do.


ELIZABETH.
Its name declares its meaning.

DAVISON.
Do you, then,
My liege, command its instant execution?

ELIZABETH.
I said not that; I tremble but to think it.

DAVISON.
Shall I retain it, then, 'till further orders?

ELIZABETH.
At your own risk; you answer the event.

DAVISON.
I! gracious heavens! Oh, speak, my queen, your pleasure!

ELIZABETH.
My pleasure is that this unhappy business
Be no more mentioned to me; that at last
I may be freed from it, and that forever.

DAVISON.
It costs you but a word--determine then
What shall I do with this mysterious scroll?

ELIZABETH.
I have declared it, plague me, sir, no longer.

DAVISON.
You have declared it, say you? Oh, my queen,
You have said nothing. Please, my gracious mistress,
But to remember----

ELIZABETH (stamps on the ground).
Insupportable!

DAVISON.
Oh, be indulgent to me! I have entered
Unwittingly, not many months ago,
Upon this office; I know not the language
Of courts and kings. I ever have been reared
In simple, open wise, a plain blunt man.
Be patient with me; nor deny your servant
A light to lead him clearly to his duty.

[He approaches her in a supplicating posture,
she turns her back on him; he stands in despair;
then speaks with a tone of resolution.

Take, take again this paper--take it back!
Within my hands it is a glowing fire.
Select not me, my queen; select not me
To serve you in this terrible conjecture.

ELIZABETH.
Go, sir;--fulfil the duty of your office.

[Exit.



SCENE XII.

DAVISON, then BURLEIGH.

DAVISON.
She goes! She leaves me doubting and perplexed
With this dread paper! How to act I know not;
Should I retain it, should I forward it?

[To BURLEIGH, who enters.

Oh! I am glad that you are come, my lord,
'Tis you who have preferred me to this charge;
Now free me from it, for I undertook it,
Unknowing how responsible it made me.
Let me then seek again the obscurity
In which you found me; this is not my place.

BURLEIGH.
How now? Take courage, sir! Where is the warrant?
The queen was with you.

DAVISON.
She has quitted me
In bitter anger. Oh, advise me, help me,
Save me from this fell agony of doubt!
My lord, here is the warrant: it is signed!

BURLEIGH.
Indeed! Oh, give it, give it me!

DAVISON.
I may not.

BURLEIGH.
How!

DAVISON.
She has not yet explained her final will.

BURLEIGH.
Explained! She has subscribed it;--give it to me.

DAVISON.
I am to execute it, and I am not.
Great heavens! I know not what I am to do!

BURLEIGH (urging more violently).
It must be now, this moment, executed.
The warrant, sir. You're lost if you delay.

DAVISON.
So am I also if I act too rashly.

BURLEIGH.
What strange infatuation. Give it me.

[Snatches the paper from him, and exit with it.

DAVISON.
What would you? Hold? You will be my destruction.




ACT V.

SCENE I.

The Scene the same as in the First Act.

HANNAH KENNEDY in deep mourning, her eyes still red
from weeping, in great but quiet anguish, is employed
in sealing letters and parcels. Her sorrow often
interrupts her occupation, and she is seen at such
intervals to pray in silence. PAULET and DRURY,
also in mourning, enter, followed by many servants,
who bear golden and silver vessels, mirrors, paintings,
and other valuables, and fill the back part of the stage
with them. PAULET delivers to the NURSE a box of jewels
and a paper, and seems to inform her by signs that it
contains the inventory of the effects the QUEEN had brought
with her. At the sight of these riches, the anguish of
the NURSE is renewed; she sinks into a deep, glowing
melancholy, during which DRURY, PAULET, and the servants
silently retire.

MELVIL enters.

KENNEDY (screams aloud as soon as she observes him).
Melvil! Is it you? Behold I you again?

MELVIL.
Yes, faithful Kennedy, we meet once more.

KENNEDY.
After this long, long, painful separation!

MELVIL.
A most unhappy, bitter meeting this!

KENNEDY.
You come----

MELVIL.
To take an everlasting leave
Of my dear queen--to bid a last farewell!

KENNEDY.
And now at length, now on the fatal morn
Which brings her death, they grant our royal lady
The presence of her friends. Oh, worthy sir,
I will not question you, how you have fared,
Nor tell you all the sufferings we've endured,
Since you were torn away from us: alas!
There will be time enough for that hereafter.
O, Melvil, Melvil, why was it our fate
To see the dawn of this unhappy day?

MELVIL.
Let us not melt each other with our grief.
Throughout my whole remaining life, as long
As ever it may be, I'll sit and weep;
A smile shall never more light up these cheeks,
Ne'er will I lay this sable garb aside,
But lead henceforth a life of endless mourning.
Yet on this last sad day I will be firm;
Pledge me your word to moderate your grief;
And when the rest of comfort all bereft,
Abandoned to despair, wail round her, we
Will lead her with heroic resolution,
And be her staff upon the road to death!

KENNEDY.
Melvil! You are deceived if you suppose
The queen has need of our support to meet
Her death with firmness. She it is, my friend,
Who will exhibit the undaunted heart.
Oh! trust me, Mary Stuart will expire
As best becomes a heroine and queen!

MELVIL.
Received she firmly, then, the sad decree
Of death? --'tis said that she was not prepared.

KENNEDY.
She was not; yet they were far other terrors
Which made our lady shudder: 'twas not death,
But her deliverer, which made her tremble.
Freedom was promised us; this very night
Had Mortimer engaged to bear us hence:
And thus the queen, perplexed 'twixt hope and fear,
And doubting still if she should trust her honor
And royal person to the adventurous youth,
Sat waiting for the morning. On a sudden
We hear a boisterous tumult in the castle;
Our ears are startled by repeated blows
Of many hammers, and we think we hear
The approach of our deliverers: hope salutes us,
And suddenly and unresisted wakes
The sweet desire of life. And now at once
The portals are thrown open--it is Paulet,
Who comes to tell us--that--the carpenters
Erect beneath our feet the murderous scaffold!

[She turns aside, overpowered by excessive anguish.

MELVIL.
O God in Heaven! Oh, tell me then how bore
The queen this terrible vicissitude?

KENNEDY (after a pause, in which she has somewhat collected herself).
Not by degrees can we relinquish life;
Quick, sudden, in the twinkling of an eye,
The separation must be made, the change
From temporal to eternal life; and God
Imparted to our mistress at this moment
His grace, to cast away each earthly hope,
And firm and full of faith to mount the skies.
No sign of pallid fear dishonored her;
No word of mourning, 'till she heard the tidings
Of Leicester's shameful treachery, the sad fate
Of the deserving youth, who sacrificed
Himself for her; the deep, the bitter anguish
Of that old knight, who lost, through her, his last,
His only hope; till then she shed no tear--
'Twas then her tears began to flow, 'twas not
Her own, but others' woe which wrung them from her.

MELVIL.
Where is she now? Can you not lead me to her?

KENNEDY.
She spent the last remainder of the night
In prayer, and from her dearest friends she took
Her last farewell in writing: then she wrote
Her will [1] with her own hand. She now enjoys
A moment of repose, the latest slumber
Refreshes her weak spirits.

MELVIL.
Who attends her?

KENNEDY.
None but her women and physician Burgoyn:
You seem to look around you with surprise;
Your eyes appear to ask me what should mean
This show of splendor in the house of death.
Oh, sir, while yet we lived we suffered want;
But at our death plenty returns to us.



SCENE II.

Enter MARGARET CURL.

KENNEDY.
How, madam, fares the queen? Is she awake?

CURL (drying her tears).
She is already dressed--she asks for you.

KENNEDY.
I go:--
[To MELVIL, who seems to wish to accompany her.
But follow not until the queen
Has been prepared to see you.

[Exit.

CURL.
Melvil, sure,
The ancient steward?

MELVIL.
Yes, the same.

CURL.
Oh, sir,
This is a house which needs no steward now!
Melvil, you come from London; can you give
No tidings of my husband?

MELVIL.
It is said
He will be set at liberty as soon----

CURL.
As soon as our dear queen shall be no more.
Oh, the unworthy, the disgraceful traitor!
He is our lady's murderer--'tis said
It was his testimony which condemned him.

MELVIL.
'Tis true.

CURL.
Oh, curse upon him! Be his soul
Condemned forever! he has borne false witness.

MELVIL.
Think, madam, what you say.

CURL.
I will maintain it
With every sacred oath before the court,
I will repeat it in his very face;
The world shall hear of nothing else. I say
That she dies innocent!

MELVIL. .
God grant it true!


[1] The document is now in the British Museum.



SCENE III.

Enter HANNAH KENNEDY.

KENNEDY (to CURL).
Go, madam, and require a cup of wine--
'Tis for our lady.

MELVIL.
Is the queen then sick?

KENNEDY.
She thinks that she is strong; she is deceived
By her heroic courage; she believes
She has no need of nourishment; yet still
A hard and painful task's allotted her.
Her enemies shall not enjoy the triumph;
They shall not say that fear hath blanched her cheeks
When her fatigues have conquered human weakness.

MELVIL.
May I approach her?

KENNEDY.
She will come herself.



SCENE IV.

Enter BURGOYN; two women of the chamber follow him,
weeping, and in deep mourning.

BURGOYN.
Oh, Melvil!

MELVIL.
Oh, Burgoyn!

[They embrace silently.

FIRST WOMAN (to the NURSE).
She chose to be
Alone: she wishes, at this awful moment,
For the last time, to commune with her God.



SCENE V.

Enter MARGARET CURL, bearing a golden cup of wine;
she places it hastily upon the table, and leans,
pale and trembling, against a chair.

MELVIL.
How, madam! What has frightened you?

KENNEDY.
Oh God!

BURGOYN.
Speak, madam!

CURL.
What, alas! have I beheld!

MELVIL.
Come to yourself, and say what you have seen!

CURL.
As I went down the staircase which conducts
To the great hall below, a door stood open;
I looked into the chamber, and I saw--
Oh heaven!

MELVIL.
What saw you?

CURL.
All the walls were hung
With black; a spacious scaffold, too, o'erspread
With sable cloth, was raised above the floor,
And in the middle of the scaffold stood
A dreadful sable block! upon it lay
A naked, polished axe:--the hall was full
Of cruel people, crowding round the scaffold
Who, with a horrid thirst for human blood,
Seemed waiting for the victim!

THE WOMEN.
Gracious heaven,
Protect our queen!

MELVIL.
Be calm; the queen approaches.



SCENE VI.

Enter MARY in white and sumptuously arrayed, as
for a festival: she wears hanging from her neck,
on a row of small beads, an Agnus Dei; a rosary
hangs from her girdle; she bears a crucifix in
her hand, and a diadem of precious stones binds
her hair; her large black veil is thrown back.
On her entrance all present fall back on both sides
with the most violent expressions of anguish.
MELVIL falls involuntarily upon his knees.

MARY (with quiet majesty, looking round the whole circle).
Why these complaints? Why weep ye? Ye should rather
Rejoice with me, that now at length the end
Of my long woe approaches; that my shackles
Fall off, my prison opens, and my soul
Delighted mounts on seraph's wings, and seeks
The land of everlasting liberty.
When I was offered up to the oppression
Of my proud enemy, was forced to suffer
Ignoble taunts, and insults most unfitting
A free and sovereign queen, then was the time
To weep for me; but as an earnest friend,
Beneficent and healing death approaches.
All the indignities which I have suffered
On earth are covered by his sable wings.
The most degraded criminal's ennobled
By his last sufferings, by his final exit;
I feel again the crown upon my brows.
And dignity possess my swelling soul!

[Advancing a few steps.

How! Melvil here! My worthy sir, not so;
Arise; you rather come in time to see
The triumph of your mistress than her death.
One comfort, which I never had expected,
Is granted me, that after death my name
Will not be quite abandoned to my foes;
One friend at least, one partner of my faith,
Will be my witness in the hour of death.
Say, honest Melvil, how you fared the while
In this inhospitable, hostile land?
For since the time they tore you from my side
My fears for you have oft depressed my soul.

MELVIL.
No other evil galled me but my grief
For thee, and that I wanted power to serve thee.

MARY.
How fares my chamberlain, old Didier?
But sure the faithful servant long has slept
The sleep of death, for he was full of years.

MELVIL.
God hath not granted him as yet this grace;
He lives to see the grave o'erwhelm thy youth.

MARY.
Oh! could I but have felt before my death,
The happiness of pressing one descendant
Of the dear blood of Stuart to my bosom.
But I must suffer in a foreign land,
None but my servants to bewail my fate!
Sir; to your loyal bosom I commit
My latest wishes.