Part 3 — Miscellaneous Selections (continued 2)

Eliz. (Drawing back.) Thy place, Stuart, is there, and I shall ever raise my hands in gratitude to heaven that it has not willed that I should kneel at thy feet, as thou now crouchest in the dust at mine.

Mary. (With great emotion.) Think of the vicissitudes of all things human! There is a Deity above who punisheth pride. Respect the Providence who now doth prostrate me at thy feet. Do not show thyself insensible and pitiless as the rock, to which the drowning man, with failing breath and outstretched arms, doth cling. My life, my entire destiny, depend upon my words and the power of my tears. Inspire my heart, teach me to move, to touch thine own. Thou turnest such icy looks upon me, that my soul doth sink within me, my grief parches my lips, and a cold shudder renders my entreaties mute. (Rises.)

Eliz. (Coldly.) What wouldst thou say to me? thou didst seek converse with me. Forgetting that I am an outraged sovereign, I honor thee with my royal presence. ’Tis in obedience to a generous impulse that I incur the reproach of having sacrificed my dignity.

Mary. How can I express myself? how shall I so choose every word that it may penetrate, without irritating, thy heart? God of mercy! aid my lips, and banish from them whatever may offend my sister! I cannot relate to thee my woes without appearing to accuse thee, and this is not my wish. Towards me thou hast been neither merciful nor just. I am thine equal, and yet thou hast made me a prisoner, a suppliant, and a fugitive. I turned to thee for aid, and thou, trampling on the rights of nations and of hospitality, hast immured me in a living tomb! Thou hast abandoned me to the most shameful need, and finally exposed me to the ignominy of a trial! But, no more of the past; we are now face to face. Display the goodness of thy heart! tell me the crimes of which I am accused! Wherefore didst thou not grant me this friendly audience when I so eagerly desired it? Years of misery would have been spared me, and this painful interview would not have occurred in this abode of gloom and horror.

Eliz. Accuse not fate, but thine own wayward soul and the unreasonable ambition of thy house. There was no quarrel between us until thy most worthy ally inspired thee with the mad and rash desire to claim for thyself the royal titles and my throne! Not satisfied with this, he then urged thee to make war against me, to threaten my crown and my life. Amidst the peace which reigned in my dominions, he fraudulently excited my subjects to revolt. But heaven doth protect me, and the attempt was abandoned in despair. The blow was aimed at my head, but ’tis on thine that it will fall.

Mary. I am in the hand of my God, but thou wilt not exceed thy power by committing a deed so atrocious?

Eliz. What could prevent me? Thy kinsman has shown monarchs how to make peace with their enemies! Who would be surety for thee if, imprudently, I were to release thee? How can I rely on thy pledged faith? Nought but my power renders me secure. No! there can be no friendship with a race of vipers.

Mary. Are these thy dark suspicions? To thine eyes, then, I have ever seemed a stranger and an enemy. If thou hadst but recognized me as heiress to thy throne—as is my lawful right—love, friendship, would have made me thy friend—thy sister.

Eliz. What affection hast thou that is not feigned? I declare thee heiress to my throne! Insidious treachery! In order, forsooth, to overturn the state, and—wily Armida that thou art—entrap within thy snares all the youthful spirits of my kingdom, so that during my own lifetime all eyes would turn towards thee—the new constellation!

Mary. Reign on in peace! I renounce all right to thy sceptre. The wings of my ambition have long drooped, and greatness has no longer charms for me. ’Tis thou who hast it all; I am now only the shade of Mary Stuart! My pristine ardor has been subdued by the ignominy of my chains. Thou hast nipped my existence in the bud. But pronounce those magnanimous words for which thou cam’st hither; for I will not believe that thou art come to enjoy the base delight of insulting thy victim! Pronounce the words so longed for, and say, “Mary, thou art free! Till now thou hast known only my power; now know my greatness.” Woe to thee, shouldst thou not depart from me propitious, beneficent, like an invoked Deity. O sister! not for all England, not for all the lands the vast ocean embraces, would I present myself to thee with the inexorable aspect with which thou now regardest me!

Eliz. At length thou confessest thyself vanquished! Hast thou emptied thy quiver of the artifices it contained? Hast thou no more assassins? Does there not remain to thee one single hero to undertake in thy defence the duties of knight-errant? Gone, Mary, gone forever are those days. Thou canst no longer seduce a follower of mine; other causes now inflame men’s hearts. In vain didst thou seek a fourth husband among my English subjects; they knew too well that thou murderest thy husbands, as thou dost thy lovers.

Mary. (Shuddering.) O heavens! sister! Grant me resignation.

Eliz. (To Leicester, with contempt.) Earl, are these the boasted features, on which no mortal eye could gaze with safety? Is this the beauty to which no other woman’s could be compared? In sooth, the reputation appears to have been easily won. To be thus celebrated as the reigning beauty of the universe seems merely to infer that she has been universal in the distribution of her favors.

Mary. Ah, ’tis too much.

Eliz. (With a smile of satisfaction.) Now thou showest thyself in thine own form. Till now thou hast worn a mask.

Mary. (With dignified pride.) They were mere human errors that overcame my youth. My grandeur dazzled me. I have nought to conceal, nor deny my faults; my pride has ever disdained the base artifices of vile intriguers. The worst I ever did is known, and I may boast myself far better than my reputation. But woe to thee, thou malignant hypocrite, if thou ever lettest fall the mantle beneath which thou concealest thy shameless amours! Thou, the daughter of Anne Boleyn, hast not inherited virtue! The causes that brought thy sinful mother to the block are known to all.

Tal. (Stepping between them.) Is this, O Mary, thine endurance? Is this thy humility?

Mary. Endurance? I have endured all that a mortal heart can bear. Hence, abject humility! Insulted patience, get ye from my heart! And thou, my long pent-up indignation, break thy bonds, and burst forth from thy lair! Oh, thou gavest to the angry serpent his deadly glance; arm my tongue with poisonous stings.

Tal. (To Elizabeth.) Forgive the angry transports which thou hast thyself provoked.

Lei. (Inducing Elizabeth to withdraw.) Hear not the ravings of a distracted woman. Leave this ill—

Mary. The throne of England is profaned by a base-born—the British nation is duped by a vile pretender! If right did prevail, thou wouldst be grovelling at my feet, for ’tis I who am thy sovereign. (Elizabeth retires. Leicester and Talbot follow.) She departs, burning with rage, and with bitterness of death at heart. Now happy I am! I have degraded her in Leicester’s presence. At last! at last! After long years of insult and contumely, I have at least enjoyed a season of triumph. (Sinks upon the floor.)

[CURTAIN.]

Schiller.

TABLEAU.

Curtain rises. Mary reclines upon the floor, disheveled hair, face buried in hands, shaking with emotion. Elizabeth stands glaring at her, face livid with anger, clenched fists. Leicester is restraining her; his hand is raised as if admonishing her not to yield to her rage and do an act unbecoming a queen. Talbot leans over Mary, to whom he appears to offer words of hope and consolation, at the same time lifting his right hand imploringly to Elizabeth.

A CASE OF INDIGESTION.

Scene—Dr. Gregory’s study. A table and two chairs.

Enter Patient (an unhappy Scotch merchant) from left. Dr. Gregory discovered reading (on right).

Patient. Good morning, Dr. Gregory! I’m just come into Edinburgh about some law business, and I thought when I was here, at any rate, I might just as weel take your advice, sir, about my trouble.

Doctor. Pray, sir, sit down. (Patient sits on left.) And now, my good sir, what may your trouble be?

Pa. Indeed, doctor, I’m not very sure, but I’m thinking it’s a kind of weakness that makes me dizzy at times, and a kind of pinkling about my stomach—I’m just na right.

Dr. You are from the west country, I should suppose, sir?

Pa. Yes, sir; from Glasgow.

Dr. Ay, pray, sir, are you a glutton?

Pa. Heaven forbid, sir! I am one of the plainest men living in the west country.

Dr. Then, perhaps, you are a drunkard?

Pa. No, Dr. Gregory, thank Heaven, no one can accuse me of that! I’m of the dissenting persuasion, doctor, and an elder, so you may suppose I’m na drunkard.

Dr. I’ll suppose no such thing till you tell me your mode of living. I’m so much puzzled with your symptoms, sir, that I should wish to hear in detail what you do eat and drink. When do you breakfast, and what do you take at it?

Pa. I breakfast at nine o’clock; take a cup of coffee, and one or two cups of tea, a couple of eggs, and a bit of ham or kippered salmon, or, maybe, both, if they’re good, and two or three rolls and butter.

Dr. Do you eat no honey, or jelly, or jam, at breakfast?

Pa. O, yes, sir! but I don’t count that as anything.

Dr. Come, this is a very moderate breakfast. What kind of a dinner do you make?

Pa. O, sir, I eat a very plain dinner, indeed. Some soup, and some fish, and a little plain roast or boiled; for I dinna care for made dishes; I think, some way, they never satisfy the appetite.

Dr. You take a little pudding, then, and afterwards some cheese?

Pa. O, yes! though I don’t care much about them.

Dr. You take a glass of ale or porter with your cheese?

Pa. Yes, one or the other; but seldom both.

Dr. You west-country people generally take a glass of Highland whiskey after dinner?

Pa. Yes, we do; it’s good for digestion.

Dr. Do you take any wine during dinner?

Pa. Yes, a glass or two of sherry; but I’m indifferent as to wine during dinner. I drink a good deal of beer.

Dr. What quantity of port do you drink?

Pa. O, very little; not above half a dozen glasses or so.

Dr. In the west country, it is impossible, I hear, to dine without punch?

Pa. Yes, sir; indeed, ’tis punch we drink chiefly; but, for myself, unless I happen to have a friend with me, I never take more than a couple of tumblers or so, and that’s moderate.

Dr. O, exceedingly moderate, indeed! You then, after this slight repast, take some tea and bread and butter?

Pa. Yes, before I go to the counting-house to read the evening letters.

Dr. And on your return you take supper, I suppose?

Pa. No, sir, I canna be said to take supper; just something before going to bed;—a rizzered haddock, or a bit of toasted cheese, or a half-hundred oysters, or the like o’that, and, maybe, two-thirds of a bottle of ale; but I take no regular supper.

Dr. But you take a little more punch after that?

Pa. No, sir; punch does not agree with me at bedtime. I take a tumbler of warm whiskey-toddy at night; it is lighter to sleep on.

Dr. So it must be, no doubt. This, you say, is your everyday life; but, upon great occasions, you perhaps exceed a little?

Pa. No, sir; except when a friend or two dine with me, or I dine out, which, as I am a sober family man, does not often happen.

Dr. Not above twice a week?

Pa. No, not oftener.

Dr. Of course you sleep well and have a good appetite?

Pa. Yes, sir, thank Heaven, I have; indeed, any ill health that I have is about mealtime.

Dr. (Rising with a severe air—the Patient also rises.) Now, sir, you are a very pretty fellow, indeed! You come here and tell me you are a moderate man; but, upon examination, I find, by your own showing, that you are a most voracious glutton. You said you were a sober man; yet, by your own showing, you are a beer-swiller, a dram-drinker, a wine-bibber, and a guzzler of punch. You tell me you eat indigestible suppers, and swill toddy to force sleep. I see that you chew tobacco. Now, sir, what human stomach can stand this? Go home, sir, and leave your present course of riotous living, and there are hopes that your stomach may recover its tone, and you be in good health, like your neighbors.

Pa. I’m sure, doctor, I’m very much obliged to you. (Taking out a bundle of bank notes.) I shall endeavor to——

Dr. Sir, you are not obliged to me:—put up your money, sir. Do you think I’ll take a fee for telling you what you know as well as myself? Though you’re no physician, sir, you are not altogether a fool. Go home, sir, and reform, or, take my word for it, your life is not worth half a year’s purchase.

Pa. Thank you, doctor, thank you. Good-day, doctor.

(Exit on right, followed by Doctor.)

MR. CROSS AND SERVANT JOHN.

Mr. Cross. Why do you keep me knocking all day at the door?

John. I was at work, sir, in the garden. As soon as I heard your knock, I ran to open the door with such haste that I fell down and hurt myself.

Mr. C. Why didn’t you leave the door open?

John. Why, sir, you scolded me yesterday because I did so. When the door is open, you scold; when it is shut, you scold. I should like to know what to do?

Mr. C. What to do? What to do, did you say?

John. I said it. Shall I leave the door open?

Mr. C. No. I tell you, no!

John. Shall I keep the door shut?

Mr. C. Shall you keep the door shut? No, I say.

John. But, sir, a door must be either open or——

Mr. C. Don’t presume to argue with me, fellow!

John. But doesn’t it hold to reason that a door——

Mr. C. Silence, I say. Hold your tongue!

John. And I say that a door must be either open or shut. Now, how will you have it?

Mr. C. I have told you a thousand times, you provoking fellow—I have told you that I wished it—— But what do you mean by cross-questioning me, sir? Have you trimmed the grape-vine, as I ordered you?

John. I did that three days ago, sir.

Mr. C. Have you washed the carriage? Eh?

John. I washed it before breakfast, sir, as usual.

Mr. C. You haven’t watered the horses to-day!

John. Go and see, sir, if you can make them drink any more. They have had their fill.

Mr. C. Have you given them their oats?

John. Ask William; he saw me do it.

Mr. C. But you have forgotten to take the mare to be shod. Ah! I have you now!

John. I have the blacksmith’s bill here.

Mr. C. My letters!—Did you take them to the post-office? Ha! You forgot, did you?

John. I forgot nothing, sir. The letters were in the mail ten minutes after you handed them to me.

Mr. C. How often have I told you not to scrape on that abominable violin of yours? And yet this very morning——

John. This morning? You forget, sir. You broke the violin all to pieces for me last Saturday night.

Mr. C. I’m glad of it! Come, now; that wood which I told you to saw and put into the shed—why is it not done? Answer me!

John. The wood is all sawed, split, and housed, sir; besides doing that, I have watered all the trees in the garden, dug over three of the beds, and was digging another when you knocked.

Mr. C. Oh, I must get rid of this fellow! He will plague my life out of me. Out of my sight, sir! (John rushes out.)

HOW TO BREAK BAD NEWS.

Mr. H. Ha, steward! how are you, my old boy? How do things go on at home?

Steward. Bad enough, your honor; the magpie’s dead.

Mr. H. Poor Mag! so he’s gone. How came he to die?

Steward. Over-ate himself, sir.

Mr. H. Did he, indeed? a greedy villain! Why, what did he get he liked so well?

Steward. Horse-flesh, sir; he died of eating horse-flesh.

Mr. H. How came he to get so much horse-flesh?

Steward. All your father’s horses, sir.

Mr. H. What! are they dead, too?

Steward. Ay, sir; they died of over-work.

Mr. H. And why were they over-worked, pray.

Steward. To carry water, sir.

Mr. H. To carry water! What did they carry water for?

Steward. Sure, sir, to put out the fire.

Mr. H. Fire! What fire?

Steward. Oh, sir, your father’s house is burned to the ground.

Mr. H. My father’s house! How come it set on fire?

Steward. I think, sir, it must have been the torches.

Mr. H. Torches! What torches?

Steward. At your mother’s funeral.

Mr. H. Alas! my mother dead?

Steward. Ah, poor lady, she never looked up after it!

Mr. H. After what?

Steward. The loss of your father.

Mr. H. My father gone, too?

Steward. Yes, poor man, he took to his bed soon as he heard of it.

Mr. H. Heard of what?

Steward. The bad news, sir, an’ please your honor.

Mr. H. What! more miseries? more bad news? No! you can add nothing more!

Steward. Yes, sir; your bank has failed, and your credit is lost, and you are not worth a dollar in the world. I made bold, sir, to come to wait on you about it, for I thought you would like to hear the news.