[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.



SCENE VII.

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.



SCENE VIII.

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.



ACT II.

SCENE I.

London, a Hall in the Palace of Westminster. The EARL OF KENT and SIR WILLIAM DAVISON meeting.

DAVISON. Is that my Lord of Kent? So soon returned? Is then the tourney, the carousal over?

KENT. How now? Were you not present at the tilt?

DAVISON. My office kept me here.

KENT. Believe me, sir, You've lost the fairest show which ever state Devised, or graceful dignity performed: For beauty's virgin fortress was presented As by desire invested; the Earl-Marshal, The Lord-High Admiral, and ten other knights Belonging to the queen defended it, And France's cavaliers led the attack. A herald marched before the gallant troop, And summoned, in a madrigal, the fortress; And from the walls the chancellor replied; And then the artillery was played, and nosegays Breathing delicious fragrance were discharged From neat field-pieces; but in vain, the storm Was valiantly resisted, and desire Was forced, unwillingly, to raise the siege.

DAVISON. A sign of evil-boding, good my lord, For the French Suitors.

KENT. Why, you know that this Was but in sport; when the attack's in earnest The fortress will, no doubt, capitulate.

DAVISON. Ha! think you so? I never can believe it.

KENT. The hardest article of all is now Adjusted and acceded to by France; The Duke of Anjou is content to hold His holy worship in a private chapel; And openly he promises to honor And to protect the realm's established faith. Had ye but heard the people's joyful shouts Where'er the tidings spread, for it has been The country's constant fear the queen might die Without immediate issue of her body; And England bear again the Romish chains If Mary Stuart should ascend the throne.

DAVISON. This fear appears superfluous; she goes Into the bridal chamber; Mary Stuart Enters the gates of death.

KENT. The queen approaches.



SCENE II.

Enter ELIZABETH, led in by LEICESTER, COUNT AUBESPINE, BELLIEVRE, LORDS SHREWSBURY and BURLEIGH, with other French and English gentlemen.

ELIZABETH (to AUBESPINE). Count, I am sorry for these noblemen Whose gallant zeal hath brought them over sea To visit these our shores, that they, with us, Must miss the splendor of St. Germain's court. Such pompous festivals of godlike state I cannot furnish as the royal court Of France. A sober and contented people, Which crowd around me with a thousand blessings Whene'er in public I present myself: This is the spectacle which I can show, And not without some pride, to foreign eyes. The splendor of the noble dames who bloom In Catherine's beauteous garden would, I know, Eclipse myself, and my more modest merits.

AUBESPINE. The court of England has one lady only To show the wondering foreigner; but all That charms our hearts in the accomplished sex Is seen united in her single person.

BELLIEVRE. Great majesty of England, suffer us To take our leave, and to our royal master, The Duke of Anjou, bring the happy news. The hot impatience of his heart would not Permit him to remain at Paris; he At Amiens awaits the joyful tidings; And thence to Calais reach his posts to bring With winged swiftness to his tranced ear The sweet consent which, still we humbly hope, Your royal lips will graciously pronounce.

ELIZABETH. Press me no further now, Count Bellievre. It is not now a time, I must repeat, To kindle here the joyful marriage torch. The heavens lower black and heavy o'er this land; And weeds of mourning would become me better Than the magnificence of bridal robes. A fatal blow is aimed against my heart; A blow which threatens to oppress my house.

BELLIEVRE. We only ask your majesty to promise Your royal hand when brighter days shall come.

ELIZABETH. Monarchs are but the slaves of their condition; They dare not hear the dictates of their hearts; My wish was ever to remain unmarried, And I had placed my greatest pride in this, That men hereafter on my tomb might read, "Here rests the virgin queen." But my good subjects Are not content that this should be: they think, E'en now they often think upon the time When I shall be no more. 'Tis not enough That blessings now are showered upon this land; They ask a sacrifice for future welfare, And I must offer up my liberty, My virgin liberty, my greatest good, To satisfy my people. Thus they'd force A lord and master on me. 'Tis by this I see that I am nothing but a woman In their regard; and yet methought that I Had governed like a man, and like a king. Well wot I that it is not serving God To quit the laws of nature; and that those Who here have ruled before me merit praise, That they have oped the cloister gates, and given Thousands of victims of ill-taught devotion Back to the duties of humanity. But yet a queen who hath not spent her days In fruitless, idle contemplation; who, Without murmur, indefatigably Performs the hardest of all duties; she Should be exempted from that natural law Which doth ordain one half of human kind Shall ever be subservient to the other.

AUBESPINE. Great queen, you have upon your throne done honor To every virtue; nothing now remains But to the sex, whose greatest boast you are To be the leading star, and give the great Example of its most consistent duties. 'Tis true, the man exists not who deserves That you to him should sacrifice your freedom; Yet if a hero's soul, descent, and rank, And manly beauty can make mortal man Deserving of this honor——

ELIZABETH. Without doubt, My lord ambassador, a marriage union With France's royal son would do me honor; Yes, I acknowledge it without disguise, If it must be, if I cannot prevent it, If I must yield unto my people's prayers, And much I fear they will o'erpower me, I do not know in Europe any prince To whom with less reluctance I would yield My greatest treasure, my dear liberty. Let this confession satisfy your master.

BELLIEVRE. It gives the fairest hope, and yet it gives Nothing but hope; my master wishes more.

ELIZABETH. What wishes he? [She takes a ring from her finger, and thoughtfully examines it. In this a queen has not One privilege above all other women. This common token marks one common duty, One common servitude; the ring denotes Marriage, and 'tis of rings a chain is formed. Convey this present to his highness; 'tis As yet no chain, it binds me not as yet, But out of it may grow a link to bind me.

BELLIEVRE (kneeling). This present, in his name, upon my knees, I do receive, great queen, and press the kiss Of homage on the hand of her who is Henceforth my princess.

ELIZABETH (to the EARL OF LEICESTER, whom she, during the last speeches, had continually regarded). By your leave, my lord.

[She takes the blue ribbon from his neck [1], and invests Bellievre with it.

Invest his highness with this ornament, As I invest you with it, and receive you Into the duties of my gallant order. And, "Honi soit qui mal y pense." Thus perish All jealousy between our several realms, And let the bond of confidence unite Henceforth, the crowns of Britain and of France.

BELLIEVRE. Most sovereign queen, this is a day of joy; Oh that it could be so for all, and no Afflicted heart within this island mourn. See! mercy beams upon thy radiant brow; Let the reflection of its cheering light Fall on a wretched princess, who concerns Britain and France alike.

ELIZABETH. No further, count! Let us not mix two inconsistent things; If France be truly anxious for my hand, It must partake my interests, and renounce Alliance with my foes.

AUBESPINE. In thine own eyes Would she not seem to act unworthily, If in this joyous treaty she forgot This hapless queen, the widow of her king; In whose behalf her honor and her faith Are bound to plead for grace.

ELIZABETH. Thus urged, I know To rate this intercession at its worth; France has discharged her duties as a friend, I will fulfil my own as England's queen.

[She bows to the French ambassadors, who, with the other gentlemen, retire respectfully.

[1] Till the time of Charles the First, the Knights of the Garter wore the blue ribbon with the George about their necks, as they still do the collars, on great days.—TRANSLATOR.



SCENE III.

Enter BURLEIGH, LEICESTER, and TALBOT. The QUEEN takes her seat.

BURLEIGH. Illustrious sovereign, thou crown'st to-day The fervent wishes of thy people; now We can rejoice in the propitious days Which thou bestowest upon us; and we look No more with fear and trembling towards the time Which, charged with storms, futurity presented. Now, but one only care disturbs this land; It is a sacrifice which every voice Demands; Oh! grant but this and England's peace Will be established now and evermore.

ELIZABETH. What wish they still, my lord? Speak.

BURLEIGH. They demand The Stuart's head. If to thy people thou Wouldst now secure the precious boon of freedom, And the fair light of truth so dearly won, Then she must die; if we are not to live In endless terror for thy precious life The enemy must fall; for well thou know'st That all thy Britons are not true alike; Romish idolatry has still its friends In secret, in this island, who foment The hatred of our enemies. Their hearts All turn toward this Stuart; they are leagued With the two plotting brothers of Lorrain, The foes inveterate of thy house and name. 'Gainst thee this raging faction hath declared A war of desolation, which they wage With the deceitful instruments of hell. At Rheims, the cardinal archbishop's see, There is the arsenal from which they dart These lightnings; there the school of regicide; Thence, in a thousand shapes disguised, are sent Their secret missionaries to this isle; Their bold and daring zealots; for from thence Have we not seen the third assassin come? And inexhausted is the direful breed Of secret enemies in this abyss. While in her castle sits at Fotheringay, The Ate [1] of this everlasting war, Who, with the torch of love, spreads flames around; For her who sheds delusive hopes on all, Youth dedicates itself to certain death; To set her free is the pretence—the aim Is to establish her upon the throne. For this accursed House of Guise denies Thy sacred right; and in their mouths thou art A robber of the throne, whom chance has crowned. By them this thoughtless woman was deluded, Proudly to style herself the Queen of England; No peace can be with her, and with her house; [Their hatred is too bloody, and their crimes Too great;] thou must resolve to strike, or suffer— Her life is death to thee, her death thy life.

ELIZABETH. My lord, you bear a melancholy office; I know the purity which guides your zeal, The solid wisdom which informs your speech; And yet I hate this wisdom, when it calls For blood, I hate it in my inmost soul. Think of a milder counsel—Good my Lord Of Shrewsbury, we crave your judgment here.

TALBOT. [Desire you but to know, most gracious queen, What is for your advantage, I can add Nothing to what my lord high-treasurer Has urged; then, for your welfare, let the sentence Be now confirmed—this much is proved already: There is no surer method to avert The danger from your head and from the state. Should you in this reject our true advice, You can dismiss your council. We are placed Here as your counsellors, but to consult The welfare of this land, and with our knowledge And our experience we are bound to serve you! But in what's good and just, most gracious queen, You have no need of counsellors, your conscience Knows it full well, and it is written there. Nay, it were overstepping our commission If we attempted to instruct you in it.

ELIZABETH. Yet speak, my worthy Lord of Shrewsbury, 'Tis not our understanding fails alone, Our heart too feels it wants some sage advice.]

TALBOT. Well did you praise the upright zeal which fires Lord Burleigh's loyal breast; my bosom, too, Although my tongue be not so eloquent, Beats with no weaker, no less faithful pulse. Long may you live, my queen, to be the joy Of your delighted people, to prolong Peace and its envied blessings in this realm. Ne'er hath this isle beheld such happy days Since it was governed by its native kings. Oh, let it never buy its happiness With its good name; at least, may Talbot's eyes Be closed in death e'er this shall come to pass.

ELIZABETH. Forbid it, heaven, that our good name be stained!

TALBOT. Then must you find some other way than this To save thy kingdom, for the sentence passed Of death against the Stuart is unjust. You cannot upon her pronounce a sentence Who is not subject to you.

ELIZABETH. Then, it seems, My council and my parliament have erred; Each bench of justice in the land is wrong, Which did with one accord admit this right.

TALBOT (after a pause). The proof of justice lies not in the voice Of numbers; England's not the world, nor is Thy parliament the focus, which collects The vast opinion of the human race. This present England is no more the future Than 'tis the past; as inclination changes, Thus ever ebbs and flows the unstable tide Of public judgment. Say not, then, that thou Must act as stern necessity compels, That thou must yield to the importunate Petitions of thy people; every hour Thou canst experience that thy will is free. Make trial, and declare thou hatest blood, And that thou wilt protect thy sister's life; Show those who wish to give thee other counsels, That here thy royal anger is not feigned, And thou shalt see how stern necessity Can vanish, and what once was titled justice Into injustice be converted: thou Thyself must pass the sentence, thou alone Trust not to this unsteady, trembling reed, But hear the gracious dictates of thy heart. God hath not planted rigor in the frame Of woman; and the founders of this realm, Who to the female hand have not denied The reins of government, intend by this To show that mercy, not severity, Is the best virtue to adorn a crown.

ELIZABETH. Lord Shrewsbury is a fervent advocate For mine and England's enemy; I must Prefer those counsellors who wish my welfare.

TALBOT. Her advocates have an invidious task! None will, by speaking in her favor, dare To meet thy anger: stiffer, then, an old And faithful counsellor (whom naught on earth Can tempt on the grave's brink) to exercise The pious duty of humanity. It never shall be said that, in thy council, Passion and interest could find a tongue, While mercy's pleading voice alone was mute, All circumstances have conspired against her; Thou ne'er hast seen her face, and nothing speaks Within thy breast for one that's stranger to thee. I do not take the part of her misdeeds; They say 'twas she who planned her husband's murder: 'Tis true that she espoused his murderer. A grievous crime, no doubt; but then it happened In darksome days of trouble and dismay, In the stern agony of civil war, When she, a woman, helpless and hemmed in By a rude crowd of rebel vassals, sought Protection in a powerful chieftain's arms. God knows what arts were used to overcome her! For woman is a weak and fragile thing.

ELIZABETH. Woman's not weak; there are heroic souls Among the sex; and, in my presence, sir, I do forbid to speak of woman's weakness.

TALBOT. Misfortune was for thee a rigid school; Thou wast not stationed on the sunny side Of life; thou sawest no throne, from far, before thee; The grave was gaping for thee at thy feet. At Woodstock, and in London's gloomy tower, 'Twas there the gracious father of this land Taught thee to know thy duty, by misfortune. No flatterer sought thee there: there learned thy soul, Far from the noisy world and its distractions, To commune with itself, to think apart, And estimate the real goods of life. No God protected this poor sufferer: Transplanted in her early youth to France, The court of levity and thoughtless joys, There, in the round of constant dissipation, She never heard the earnest voice of truth; She was deluded by the glare of vice, And driven onward by the stream of ruin. Hers was the vain possession of a face, And she outshone all others of her sex As far in beauty, as in noble birth.

ELIZABETH. Collect yourself, my Lord of Shrewsbury; Bethink you we are met in solemn council. Those charms must surely be without compare, Which can engender, in an elder's blood, Such fire. My Lord of Leicester, you alone Are silent; does the subject which has made Him eloquent, deprive you of your speech?

LEICESTER. Amazement ties my tongue, my queen, to think That they should fill thy soul with such alarms, And that the idle tales, which, in the streets, Of London, terrify the people's ears, Should reach the enlightened circle of thy council, And gravely occupy our statesmen's minds. Astonishment possesses me, I own, To think this lackland Queen of Scotland, she Who could not save her own poor throne, the jest Of her own vassals, and her country's refuse, [Who in her fairest days of freedom, was But thy despised puppet,] should become At once thy terror when a prisoner. What, in Heaven's name, can make her formidable? That she lays claim to England? that the Guises Will not acknowledge thee as queen? [Did then Thy people's loyal fealty await These Guises' approbation?] Can these Guises, With their objections, ever shake the right Which birth hath given thee; which, with one consent, The votes of parliament have ratified? And is not she, by Henry's will, passed o'er In silence? Is it probable that England, As yet so blessed in the new light's enjoyment, Should throw itself into this papist's arms? From thee, the sovereign it adores, desert To Darnley's murderess? What will they then, These restless men, who even in thy lifetime Torment thee with a successor; who cannot Dispose of thee in marriage soon enough To rescue church and state from fancied peril? Stand'st thou not blooming there in youthful prime While each step leads her towards the expecting tomb? By Heavens, I hope thou wilt full many a year Walk o'er the Stuart's grave, and ne'er become Thyself the instrument of her sad end.

BURLEIGH. Lord Leicester hath not always held this tone.

LEICESTER. 'Tis true, I in the court of justice gave My verdict for her death; here, in the council, I may consistently speak otherwise Here, right is not the question, but advantage. Is this a time to fear her power, when France, Her only succor, has abandoned her? When thou preparest with thy hand to bless The royal son of France, when the fair hope Of a new, glorious stem of sovereigns Begins again to blossom in this land? Why hasten then her death? She's dead already. Contempt and scorn are death to her; take heed Lest ill-timed pity call her into life. 'Tis therefore my advice to leave the sentence, By which her life is forfeit, in full force. Let her live on; but let her live beneath The headsman's axe, and, from the very hour One arm is lifted for her, let it fall.

ELIZABETH (rises). My lords, I now have heard your several thoughts, And give my ardent thanks for this your zeal. With God's assistance, who the hearts of kings Illumines, I will weigh your arguments, And choose what best my judgment shall approve.

[To BURLEIGH.

[Lord Burleigh's honest fears, I know it well, Are but the offspring of his faithful care; But yet, Lord Leicester has most truly said, There is no need of haste; our enemy Hath lost already her most dangerous sting— The mighty arm of France: the fear that she Might quickly be the victim of their zeal Will curb the blind impatience of her friends.]

[1] The picture of Ate, the goddess of mischief, we are acquainted with from Homer, II. v. 91, 130. I. 501. She is a daughter of Jupiter, and eager to prejudice every one, even the immortal gods. She counteracted Jupiter himself, on which account he seized her by her beautiful hair, and hurled her from heaven to the earth, where she now, striding over the heads of men, excites them to evil in order to involve them in calamity.—HERDER.

Shakspeare has, in Julius Caesar, made a fine use of this image:—

"And Caesar's spirit ranging for revenge with Ate by his side, come hot from hell, Shall in these confines, with a monarch's voice, Cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war."

I need not point out to the reader the beautiful propriety of introducing the evil spirit on this occasion.—TRANSLATOR.



SCENE IV.

Enter SIR AMIAS PAULET and MORTIMER.

ELIZABETH. There's Sir Amias Paulet; noble sir, What tidings bring you?

PAULET. Gracious sovereign, My nephew, who but lately is returned From foreign travel, kneels before thy feet, And offers thee his first and earliest homage, Grant him thy royal grace, and let him grow And flourish in the sunshine of thy favor.

MORTIMER (kneeling on one knee). Long live my royal mistress! Happiness And glory from a crown to grace her brows!

ELIZABETH. Arise, sir knight; and welcome here in England; You've made, I hear, the tour, have been in France And Rome, and tarried, too, some time at Rheims: Tell me what plots our enemies are hatching?

MORTIMER. May God confound them all! And may the darts Which they shall aim against my sovereign, Recoiling, strike their own perfidious breasts!

ELIZABETH. Did you see Morgan, and the wily Bishop Of Ross?

MORTIMER. I saw, my queen, all Scottish exiles Who forge at Rheims their plots against this realm. I stole into their confidence in hopes To learn some hint of their conspiracies.

PAULET. Private despatches they intrusted to him, In cyphers, for the Queen of Scots, which he, With loyal hand, hath given up to us.

ELIZABETH. Say, what are then their latest plans of treason?

MORTIMER. It struck them all as 'twere a thunderbolt, That France should leave them, and with England close This firm alliance; now they turn their hopes Towards Spain——

ELIZABETH. This, Walsingham hath written us.

MORTIMER. Besides, a bull, which from the Vatican Pope Sixtus lately levelled at thy throne, Arrived at Rheims, as I was leaving it; With the next ship we may expect it here.

LEICESTER. England no more is frightened by such arms.

BURLEIGH. They're always dangerous in bigots' hands.

ELIZABETH (looking steadfastly at MORTIMER). Your enemies have said that you frequented The schools at Rheims, and have abjured your faith.

MORTIMER. So I pretended, that I must confess; Such was my anxious wish to serve my queen.

ELIZABETH (to PAULET, who presents papers to her). What have you there?

PAULET. 'Tis from the Queen of Scots. 'Tis a petition, and to thee addressed.

BURLEIGH (hastily catching at it). Give me the paper.

PAULET (giving it to the QUEEN). By your leave, my lord High-treasurer; the lady ordered me To bring it to her majesty's own hands. She says I am her enemy; I am The enemy of her offences only, And that which is consistent with my duty I will, and readily, oblige her in.

[The QUEEN takes the letter: as she reads it MORTIMER and LEICESTER speak some words in private.

BURLEIGH (to PAULET). What may the purport of the letter be? Idle complaints, from which one ought to screen The queen's too tender heart.

PAULET. What it contains She did not hide from me; she asks a boon; She begs to be admitted to the grace Of speaking with the queen.

BURLEIGH. It cannot be.

TALBOT. Why not? Her supplication's not unjust.

BURLEIGH. For her, the base encourager of murder; Her, who hath thirsted for our sovereign's blood, The privilege to see the royal presence Is forfeited: a faithful counsellor Can never give this treacherous advice.

TALBOT. And if the queen is gracious, sir, are you The man to hinder pity's soft emotions?

BURLEIGH. She is condemned to death; her head is laid Beneath the axe, and it would ill become The queen to see a death-devoted head. The sentence cannot have its execution If the queen's majesty approaches her, For pardon still attends the royal presence, As sickness flies the health-dispensing hand.

ELIZABETH (having read the letter, dries her tears). Oh, what is man! What is the bliss of earth! To what extremities is she reduced Who with such proud and splendid hopes began! Who, called to sit on the most ancient throne Of Christendom, misled by vain ambition, Hoped with a triple crown to deck her brows! How is her language altered, since the time When she assumed the arms of England's crown, And by the flatterers of her court was styled Sole monarch of the two Britannic isles! Forgive me, lords, my heart is cleft in twain, Anguish possesses me, and my soul bleeds To think that earthly goods are so unstable, And that the dreadful fate which rules mankind Should threaten mine own house, and scowl so near me.

TALBOT. Oh, queen! the God of mercy hath informed Your heart; Oh! hearken to this heavenly guidance. Most grievously, indeed, hath she atoned. Her grievous crime, and it is time that now, At last, her heavy penance have an end. Stretch forth your hand to raise this abject queen, And, like the luminous vision of an angel, Descend into her gaol's sepulchral night.

BURLEIGH. Be steadfast, mighty queen; let no emotion Of seeming laudable humanity Mislead thee; take not from thyself the power Of acting as necessity commands. Thou canst not pardon her, thou canst not save her: Then heap not on thyself the odious blame, That thou, with cruel and contemptuous triumph, Didst glut thyself with gazing on thy victim.

LEICESTER. Let us, my lords, remain within our bounds; The queen is wise, and doth not need our counsels To lead her to the most becoming choice. This meeting of the queens hath naught in common With the proceedings of the court of justice. The law of England, not the monarch's will, Condemns the Queen of Scotland, and 'twere worthy Of the great soul of Queen Elizabeth, To follow the soft dictates of her heart, Though justice swerves not from its rigid path.

ELIZABETH. Retire, my lords. We shall, perhaps, find means To reconcile the tender claims of pity With what necessity imposes on us. And now retire. [The LORDS retire; she calls SIR EDWARD MORTIMER back. Sir Edward Mortimer!



SCENE V.

ELIZABETH, MORTIMER.

ELIZABETH (having measured him for some time with her eyes in silence). You've shown a spirit of adventurous courage And self-possession, far beyond your years. He who has timely learnt to play so well The difficult dissembler's needful task Becomes a perfect man before his time, And shortens his probationary years. Fate calls you to a lofty scene of action; I prophesy it, and can, happily For you, fulfil, myself, my own prediction.

MORTIMER. Illustrious mistress, what I am, and all I can accomplish, is devoted to you.

ELIZABETH. You've made acquaintance with the foes of England. Their hate against me is implacable; Their fell designs are inexhaustible. As yet, indeed, Almighty Providence Hath shielded me; but on my brows the crown Forever trembles, while she lives who fans Their bigot-zeal, and animates their hopes.

MORTIMER. She lives no more, as soon as you command it.

ELIZABETH. Oh, sir! I thought I saw my labors end, And I am come no further than at first, I wished to let the laws of England act, And keep my own hands pure from blood's defilement. The sentence is pronounced—what gain I by it? It must be executed, Mortimer, And I must authorize the execution. The blame will ever light on me, I must Avow it, nor can save appearances. That is the worst——

MORTIMER. But can appearances Disturb your conscience where the cause is just?

ELIZABETH. You are unpractised in the world, sir knight; What we appear, is subject to the judgment Of all mankind, and what we are, of no man. No one will be convinced that I am right: I must take care that my connivance in Her death be wrapped in everlasting doubt. In deeds of such uncertain double visage Safety lies only in obscurity. Those measures are the worst that stand avowed; What's not abandoned, is not wholly lost.

MORTIMER (seeking to learn her meaning). Then it perhaps were best——

ELIZABETH (quick). Ay, surely 'twere The best; Oh, sir, my better angel speaks Through you;—go on then, worthy sir, conclude You are in earnest, you examine deep, Have quite a different spirit from your uncle.

MORTIMER (surprised). Have you imparted then your wishes to him?

ELIZABETH. I am sorry that I have.

MORTIMER. Excuse his age, The old man is grown scrupulous; such bold Adventures ask the enterprising heart Of youth——

ELIZABETH. And may I venture then on you——

MORTIMER. My hand I'll lend thee; save then as thou canst Thy reputation——

ELIZABETH. Yes, sir; if you could But waken me some morning with this news "Maria Stuart, your bloodthirsty foe, Breathed yesternight her last"——

MORTIMER. Depend on me.

ELIZABETH. When shall my head lie calmly down to sleep?

MORTIMER. The next new moon will terminate thy fears.

ELIZABETH. And be the selfsame happy day the dawn Of your preferment—so God speed you, sir; And be not hurt, if, chance, my thankfulness Should wear the mask of darkness. Silence is The happy suitor's god. The closest bonds, The dearest, are the works of secrecy.

[Exit.



SCENE VI.

MORTIMER (alone).

Go, false, deceitful queen! As thou deludest The world, e'en so I cozen thee; 'tis right, Thus to betray thee; 'tis a worthy deed. Look I then like a murderer? Hast thou read Upon my brow such base dexterity? Trust only to my arm, and keep thine own Concealed—assume the pious outward show Of mercy 'fore the world, while reckoning In secret on my murderous aid; and thus By gaining time we shall insure her rescue. Thou wilt exalt me!—show'st me from afar The costly recompense: but even were Thyself the prize, and all thy woman's favor, What art thou, poor one, and what canst thou proffer? I scorn ambition's avaricious strife, With her alone is all the charm of life, O'er her, in rounds of endless glory, hover Spirits with grace, and youth eternal blessed, Celestial joy is throned upon her breast. Thou hast but earthly, mortal goods to offer— That sovereign good, for which all else be slighted, When heart in heart, delighting and delighted; Together flow in sweet forgetfulness;— Ne'er didst thou woman's fairest crown possess, Ne'er hast thou with thy hand a lover's heart requited. I must attend Lord Leicester, and deliver Her letter to him—'tis a hateful charge— I have no confidence in this court puppet— I can effect her rescue, I alone; Be danger, honor, and the prize my own.

[As he is going, PAULET meets him.



SCENE VII.

MORTIMER, PAULET.

PAULET. What said the queen to you?

MORTIMER. 'Twas nothing, sir; Nothing of consequence——

PAULET (looking at him earnestly). Hear, Mortimer! It is a false and slippery ground on which You tread. The grace of princes is alluring, Youth loves ambition—let not yours betray you.

MORTIMER. Was it not yourself that brought me to the court?

PAULET. Oh, would to God I had not done as much! The honor of our house was never reaped In courts—stand fast, my nephew—purchase not Too dear, nor stain your conscience with a crime.

MORTIMER. What are these fears? What are you dreaming of?

PAULET. How high soever the queen may pledge herself To raise you, trust not her alluring words. [The spirit of the world's a lying spirit, And vice is a deceitful, treacherous friend.] She will deny you, if you listen to her; And, to preserve her own good name, will punish The bloody deed, which she herself enjoined.

MORTIMER. The bloody deed!——

PAULET. Away, dissimulation!— I know the deed the queen proposed to you. She hopes that your ambitious youth will prove More docile than my rigid age. But say, Have you then pledged your promise, have you?

MORTIMER. Uncle!

PAULET. If you have done so, I abandon you, And lay my curse upon you——

LEICESTER (entering). Worthy sir! I with your nephew wish a word. The queen Is graciously inclined to him; she wills That to his custody the Scottish queen Be with full powers intrusted. She relies On his fidelity.

PAULET. Relies!—'tis well——

LEICESTER. What say you, sir?

PAULET. Her majesty relies On him; and I, my noble lord, rely Upon myself, and my two open eyes.

[Exit.



SCENE VIII.

LEICESTER, MORTIMER.

LEICESTER (surprised). What ailed the knight?

MORTIMER. My lord, I cannot tell What angers him: the confidence, perhaps, The queen so suddenly confers on me.

LEICESTER. Are you deserving then of confidence?

MORTIMER. This would I ask of you, my Lord of Leicester.

LEICESTER. You said you wished to speak with me in private.

MORTIMER. Assure me first that I may safely venture.

LEICESTER. Who gives me an assurance on your side? Let not my want of confidence offend you; I see you, sir, exhibit at this court Two different aspects; one of them must be A borrowed one; but which of them is real?

MORTIMER. The selfsame doubts I have concerning you.

LEICESTER. Which, then, shall pave the way to confidence?

MORTIMER. He, who by doing it, is least in danger.

LEICESTER. Well, that are you——

MORTIMER. No, you; the evidence Of such a weighty, powerful peer as you Can overwhelm my voice. My accusation Is weak against your rank and influence.

LEICESTER. Sir, you mistake. In everything but this I'm powerful here; but in this tender point Which I am called upon to trust you with, I am the weakest man of all the court, The poorest testimony can undo me.

MORTIMER. If the all-powerful Earl of Leicester deign To stoop so low to meet me, and to make Such a confession to me, I may venture To think a little better of myself, And lead the way in magnanimity.

LEICESTER. Lead you the way of confidence, I'll follow.

MORTIMER (producing suddenly the letter). Here is a letter from the Queen of Scotland.

LEICESTER (alarmed, catches hastily at the letter). Speak softly, sir! what see I? Oh, it is Her picture!

[Kisses and examines it with speechless joy—a pause.

MORTIMER (who has watched him closely the whole tine). Now, my lord, I can believe you.

LEICESTER (having hastily run through the letter). You know the purport of this letter, sir.

MORTIMER. Not I.

LEICESTER. Indeed! She surely hath informed you.

MORTIMER. Nothing hath she informed me of. She said You would explain this riddle to me—'tis To me a riddle, that the Earl of Leicester, The far-famed favorite of Elizabeth, The open, bitter enemy of Mary, And one of those who spoke her mortal sentence, Should be the man from whom the queen expects Deliverance from her woes; and yet it must be; Your eyes express too plainly what your heart Feels for the hapless lady.

LEICESTER. Tell me, Sir, First, how it comes that you should take so warm An interest in her fate; and what it was Gained you her confidence?

MORTIMER. My lord, I can, And in few words, explain this mystery. I lately have at Rome abjured my creed, And stand in correspondence with the Guises. A letter from the cardinal archbishop Was my credential with the Queen of Scots.

LEICESTER. I am acquainted, sir, with your conversion; 'Twas that which waked my confidence towards you. [Each remnant of distrust be henceforth banished;] Your hand, sir, pardon me these idle doubts, I cannot use too much precaution here. Knowing how Walsingham and Burleigh hate me, And, watching me, in secret spread their snares; You might have been their instrument, their creature To lure me to their toils.

MORTIMER. How poor a part So great a nobleman is forced to play At court! My lord, I pity you.

LEICESTER. With joy I rest upon the faithful breast of friendship, Where I can ease me of this long constraint. You seem surprised, sir, that my heart is turned So suddenly towards the captive queen. In truth, I never hated her; the times Have forced me to be her enemy. She was, as you well know, my destined bride, Long since, ere she bestowed her hand on Darnley, While yet the beams of glory round her smiled, Coldly I then refused the proffered boon. Now in confinement, at the gates of death, I claim her at the hazard of my life.

MORTIMER. True magnanimity, my lord.

LEICESTER. The state Of circumstances since that time is changed. Ambition made me all insensible To youth and beauty. Mary's hand I held Too insignificant for me; I hoped To be the husband of the Queen of England.

MORTIMER. It is well known she gave you preference Before all others.

LEICESTER. So, indeed, it seemed. Now, after ten lost years of tedious courtship And hateful self-constraint—oh, sir, my heart Must ease itself of this long agony. They call me happy! Did they only know What the chains are, for which they envy me! When I had sacrificed ten bitter years To the proud idol of her vanity; Submitted with a slave's humility To every change of her despotic fancies The plaything of each little wayward whim. At times by seeming tenderness caressed, As oft repulsed with proud and cold disdain; Alike tormented by her grace and rigor: Watched like a prisoner by the Argus eyes Of jealousy; examined like a schoolboy, And railed at like a servant. Oh, no tongue Can paint this hell.

MORTIMER. My lord, I feel for you.

LEICESTER. To lose, and at the very goal, the prize Another comes to rob me of the fruits Of my so anxious wooing. I must lose To her young blooming husband all those rights Of which I was so long in full possession; And I must from the stage descend, where I So long have played the most distinguished part. 'Tis not her hand alone this envious stranger Threatens, he'd rob me of her favor too; She is a woman, and he formed to please.

MORTIMER. He is the son of Catherine. He has learnt In a good school the arts of flattery.

LEICESTER. Thus fall my hopes; I strove to seize a plank To bear me in this shipwreck of my fortunes, And my eye turned itself towards the hope Of former days once more; then Mary's image Within me was renewed, and youth and beauty Once more asserted all their former rights. No more 'twas cold ambition; 'twas my heart Which now compared, and with regret I felt The value of the jewel I had lost. With horror I beheld her in the depths. Of misery, cast down by my transgression; Then waked the hope in me that I might still Deliver and possess her; I contrived To send her, through a faithful hand, the news Of my conversion to her interests; And in this letter which you brought me, she Assures me that she pardons me, and offers Herself as guerdon if I rescue her.

MORTIMER. But you attempted nothing for her rescue. You let her be condemned without a word: You gave, yourself, your verdict for her death; A miracle must happen, and the light Of truth must move me, me, her keeper's nephew, And heaven must in the Vatican at Rome Prepare for her an unexpected succour, Else had she never found the way to you.

LEICESTER. Oh, sir, it has tormented me enough! About this time it was that they removed her From Talbot's castle, and delivered her Up to your uncle's stricter custody. Each way to her was shut. I was obliged Before the world to persecute her still; But do not think that I would patiently Have seen her led to death. No, Sir; I hoped, And still I hope, to ward off all extremes, Till I can find some certain means to save her.

MORTIMER. These are already found: my Lord of Leicester; Your generous confidence in me deserves A like return. I will deliver her. That is my object here; my dispositions Are made already, and your powerful aid Assures us of success in our attempt.

LEICESTER. What say you? You alarm me! How? You would——

MORTIMER. I'll open forcibly her prison-gates; I have confederates, and all is ready.

LEICESTER. You have confederates, accomplices? Alas! In what rash enterprise would you Engage me? And these friends, know they my secret?

MORTIMER. Fear not; our plan was laid without your help, Without your help it would have been accomplished, Had she not signified her resolution To owe her liberty to you alone.

LEICESTER. And can you, then, with certainty assure me That in your plot my name has not been mentioned?

MORTIMER. You may depend upon it. How, my lord, So scrupulous when help is offered you? You wish to rescue Mary, and possess her; You find confederates; sudden, unexpected, The readiest means fall, as it were from Heaven, Yet you show more perplexity than joy.

LEICESTER. We must avoid all violence; it is Too dangerous an enterprise.

MORTIMER. Delay Is also dangerous.

LEICESTER. I tell you, Sir, 'Tis not to be attempted——

MORTIMER. My lord, Too hazardous for you, who would possess her; But we, who only wish to rescue her, We are more bold.

LEICESTER. Young man, you are too hasty In such a thorny, dangerous attempt.

MORTIMER. And you too scrupulous in honor's cause.

LEICESTER. I see the trammels that are spread around us.

MORTIMER. And I feel courage to break through them all.

LEICESTER. Foolhardiness and madness, is this courage?

MORTIMER. This prudence is not bravery, my lord.

LEICESTER. You surely wish to end like Babington.

MORTIMER. You not to imitate great Norfolk's virtue.

LEICESTER. Norfolk ne'er won the bride he wooed so fondly.

MORTIMER. But yet he proved how truly he deserved her.

LEICESTER. If we are ruined, she must fall with us.

MORTIMER. If we risk nothing, she will ne'er be rescued.

LEICESTER. You will not weigh the matter, will not hear; With blind and hasty rashness you destroy The plans which I so happily had framed.

MORTIMER. And what were then the plans which you had framed? What have you done then to deliver her? And how, if I were miscreant enough To murder her, as was proposed to me This moment by Elizabeth, and which She looks upon as certain; only name The measures you have taken to protect her?

LEICESTER. Did the queen give you, then, this bloody order?

MORTIMER. She was deceived in me, as Mary is in you.

LEICESTER. And have you promised it? Say, have you?

MORTIMER. That she might not engage another's hand, I offered mine.

LEICESTER. Well done, sir; that was right; This gives us leisure, for she rests secure Upon your bloody service, and the sentence Is unfulfilled the while, and we gain time.

MORTIMER (angrily). No, we are losing time.

LEICESTER. The queen depends On you, and will the readier make a show Of mercy; and I may prevail on her To give an audience to her adversary; And by this stratagem we tie her hands Yes! I will make the attempt, strain every nerve.

MORTIMER. And what is gained by this? When she discovers That I am cheating her, that Mary lives; Are we not where we were? She never will Be free; the mildest doom which can await her At best is but perpetual confinement. A daring deed must one day end the matter; Why will you not with such a deed begin? The power is in your hands, would you but rouse The might of your dependents round about Your many castles, 'twere an host; and still Has Mary many secret friends. The Howards And Percies' noble houses, though their chiefs Be fallen, are rich in heroes; they but wait For the example of some potent lord. Away with feigning—act an open part, And, like a loyal knight, protect your fair; Fight a good fight for her! You know you are Lord of the person of the Queen of England, Whene'er you will: invite her to your castle, Oft hath she thither followed you—then show That you're a man; then speak as master; keep her Confined till she release the Queen of Scots.

LEICESTER. I am astonished—I am terrified! Where would your giddy madness hurry you? Are you acquainted with this country? Know you The deeps and shallows of this court? With what A potent spell this female sceptre binds And rules men's spirits round her? 'Tis in vain You seek the heroic energy which once Was active in this land! it is subdued, A woman holds it under lock and key, And every spring of courage is relaxed. Follow my counsel—venture nothing rashly. Some one approaches-go——

MORTIMER. And Mary hopes— Shall I return to her with empty comfort?

LEICESTER. Bear her my vows of everlasting love.

MORTIMER. Bear them yourself! I offered my assistance As her deliverer, not your messenger.

[Exit.



SCENE IX.

ELIZABETH, LEICESTER.

ELIZABETH. Say, who was here? I heard the sound of voices.

LEICESTER (turning quickly and perplexed round on hearing the QUEEN). It was young Mortimer——

ELIZABETH. How now, my lord: Why so confused?

LEICESTER (collecting himself). Your presence is the cause. Ne'er did I see thy beauty so resplendent, My sight is dazzled by thy heavenly charms. Oh!

ELIZABETH. Whence this sigh?

LEICESTER. Have I no reason, then, To sigh? When I behold you in your glory, I feel anew, with pain unspeakable, The loss which threatens me.

ELIZABETH. What loss, my lord?

LEICESTER. Your heart; your own inestimable self Soon will you feel yourself within the arms Of your young ardent husband, highly blessed; He will possess your heart without a rival. He is of royal blood, that am not I. Yet, spite of all the world can say, there lives not One on this globe who with such fervent zeal Adores you as the man who loses you. Anjou hath never seen you, can but love Your glory and the splendor of your reign; But I love you, and were you born of all The peasant maids the poorest, I the first Of kings, I would descend to your condition, And lay my crown and sceptre at your feet!

ELIZABETH. Oh, pity me, my Dudley; do not blame me; I cannot ask my heart. Oh, that had chosen Far otherwise! Ah, how I envy others Who can exalt the object of their love! But I am not so blest: 'tis not my fortune To place upon the brows of him, the dearest Of men to me, the royal crown of England. The Queen of Scotland was allowed to make Her hand the token of her inclination; She hath had every freedom, and hath drunk, Even to the very dregs, the cup of joy.

LEICESTER. And now she drinks the bitter cup of sorrow.

ELIZABETH. She never did respect the world's opinion; Life was to her a sport; she never courted The yoke to which I bowed my willing neck. And yet, methinks, I had as just a claim As she to please myself and taste the joys Of life: but I preferred the rigid duties Which royalty imposed on me; yet she, She was the favorite of all the men Because she only strove to be a woman; And youth and age became alike her suitors. Thus are the men voluptuaries all! The willing slaves of levity and pleasure; Value that least which claims their reverence. And did not even Talbot, though gray-headed, Grow young again when speaking of her charms?

LEICESTER. Forgive him, for he was her keeper once, And she has fooled him with her cunning wiles.

ELIZABETH. And is it really true that she's so fair? So often have I been obliged to hear The praises of this wonder—it were well If I could learn on what I might depend: Pictures are flattering, and description lies; I will trust nothing but my own conviction. Why gaze you at me thus?

LEICESTER. I placed in thought You and Maria Stuart side by side. Yes! I confess I oft have felt a wish, If it could be but secretly contrived, To see you placed beside the Scottish queen, Then would you feel, and not till then, the full Enjoyment of your triumph: she deserves To be thus humbled; she deserves to see, With her own eyes, and envy's glance is keen, Herself surpassed, to feel herself o'ermatched, As much by thee in form and princely grace As in each virtue that adorns the sex.

ELIZABETH. In years she has the advantage——

LEICESTER. Has she so? I never should have thought it. But her griefs, Her sufferings, indeed! 'tis possible Have brought down age upon her ere her time. Yes, and 'twould mortify her more to see thee As bride—she hath already turned her back On each fair hope of life, and she would see thee Advancing towards the open arms of joy. See thee as bride of France's royal son, She who hath always plumed herself so high On her connection with the house of France, And still depends upon its mighty aid.

ELIZABETH (with a careless air). I'm teazed to grant this interview.

LEICESTER. She asks it As a favor; grant it as a punishment. For though you should conduct her to the block, Yet would it less torment her than to see Herself extinguished by your beauty's splendor. Thus can you murder her as she hath wished To murder you. When she beholds your beauty, Guarded by modesty, and beaming bright, In the clear glory of unspotted fame (Which she with thoughtless levity discarded), Exalted by the splendor of the crown, And blooming now with tender bridal graces— Then is the hour of her destruction come. Yes—when I now behold you—you were never, No, never were you so prepared to seal The triumph of your beauty. As but now You entered the apartment, I was dazzled As by a glorious vision from on high. Could you but now, now as you are, appear Before her, you could find no better moment.

ELIZABETH. Now? no, not now; no, Leicester; this must be Maturely weighed—I must with Burleigh——

LEICESTER. Burleigh! To him you are but sovereign, and as such Alone he seeks your welfare; but your rights, Derived from womanhood, this tender point Must be decided by your own tribunal, Not by the statesman; yet e'en policy Demands that you should see her, and allure By such a generous deed the public voice. You can hereafter act as it may please you, To rid you of the hateful enemy.

ELIZABETH. But would it then become me to behold My kinswoman in infamy and want? They say she is not royally attended; Would not the sight of her distress reproach me?

LEICESTER. You need not cross her threshold; hear my counsel. A fortunate conjuncture favors it. The hunt you mean to honor with your presence Is in the neighborhood of Fotheringay; Permission may be given to Lady Stuart To take the air; you meet her in the park, As if by accident; it must not seem To have been planned, and should you not incline, You need not speak to her.

ELIZABETH. If I am foolish, Be yours the fault, not mine. I would not care To-day to cross your wishes; for to-day I've grieved you more than all my other subjects. [Tenderly. Let it then be your fancy. Leicester, hence You see the free obsequiousness of love. Which suffers that which it cannot approve.

[LEICESTER prostrates himself before her, and the curtain falls.



ACT III.

SCENE I.

In a park. In the foreground trees; in the background a distant prospect.

MARY advances, running from behind the trees. HANNAH KENNEDY follows slowly.

KENNEDY. You hasten on as if endowed with wings; I cannot follow you so swiftly; wait.

MARY. Freedom returns! Oh let me enjoy it. Let me be childish; be thou childish with me. Freedom invites me! Oh, let me employ it Skimming with winged step light o'er the lea; Have I escaped from this mansion of mourning? Holds me no more the sad dungeon of care? Let me, with joy and with eagerness burning, Drink in the free, the celestial air.

KENNEDY. Oh, my dear lady! but a very little Is your sad gaol extended; you behold not The wall that shuts us in; these plaited tufts Of trees hide from your sight the hated object.

MARY. Thanks to these friendly trees, that hide from me My prison walls, and flatter my illusion! Happy I now may deem myself, and free; Why wake me from my dream's so sweet confusion? The extended vault of heaven around me lies, Free and unfettered range my wandering eyes O'er space's vast, immeasurable sea! From where yon misty mountains rise on high I can my empire's boundaries explore; And those light clouds which, steering southwards, fly, Seek the mild clime of France's genial shore. Fast fleeting clouds! ye meteors that fly; Could I but with you sail through the sky! Tenderly greet the dear land of my youth! Here I am captive! oppressed by my foes, No other than you may carry my woes. Free through the ether your pathway is seen, Ye own not the power of this tyrant queen.

KENNEDY. Alas! dear lady! You're beside yourself, This long-lost, long-sought freedom makes you rave.

MARY. Yonder's a fisher returning to his home; Poor though it be, would he lend me his wherry, Quick to congenial shores would I ferry. Spare is his trade, and labor's his doom; Rich would I freight his vessel with treasure; Such a draught should be his as he never had seen; Wealth should he find in his nets without measure, Would he but rescue a poor captive queen.

KENNEDY. Fond, fruitless wishes! See you not from far How we are followed by observing spies? A dismal, barbarous prohibition scares Each sympathetic being from our path.

MARY. No, gentle Hannah! Trust me, not in vain My prison gates are opened. This small grace Is harbinger of greater happiness. No! I mistake not; 'tis the active hand Of love to which I owe this kind indulgence. I recognize in this the mighty arm Of Leicester. They will by degrees expand My prison; will accustom me, through small, To greater liberty, until at last I shall behold the face of him whose hand Will dash my fetters off, and that forever.

KENNEDY. Oh, my dear queen! I cannot reconcile These contradictions. 'Twas but yesterday That they announced your death, and all at once, To-day, you have such liberty. Their chains Are also loosed, as I have oft been told, Whom everlasting liberty awaits.

[Hunting horns at a distance.

MARY. Hear'st then the bugle, so blithely resounding? Hear'st thou its echoes through wood and through plain? Oh, might I now, on my nimble steed bounding, Join with the jocund, the frolicsome train.

[Hunting horns again heard.

Again! Oh, this sad and this pleasing remembrance! These are the sounds which, so sprightly and clear, Oft, when with music the hounds and the horn So cheerfully welcomed the break of the morn, On the heaths of the Highlands delighted my ear.



SCENE II.

Enter PAULET.

PAULET. Well, have I acted right at last, my lady? Do I for once, at least, deserve your thanks?

MARY. How! Do I owe this favor, sir, to you?

PAULET. Why not to me? I visited the court, And gave the queen your letter.

MARY. Did you give it? In very truth did you deliver it? And is this freedom which I now enjoy The happy consequence?

PAULET (significantly). Nor that alone; Prepare yourself to see a greater still.

MARY. A greater still! What do you mean by that?

PAULET. You heard the bugle-horns?

MARY (starting back with foreboding apprehension). You frighten me.

PAULET. The queen is hunting in the neighborhood——

MARY. What!

PAULET. In a few moments she'll appear before you.

KENNEDY (hastening towards MARY, and about to fall). How fare you, dearest lady? You grow pale.

PAULET. How? Is't not well? Was it not then your prayer? 'Tis granted now, before it was expected; You who had ever such a ready speech, Now summon all your powers of eloquence, The important time to use them now is come.

MARY. Oh, why was I not told of this before? Now I am not prepared for it—not now What, as the greatest favor, I besought, Seems to me now most fearful; Hannah, come, Lead me into the house, till I collect My spirits.

PAULET. Stay; you must await her here. Yes! I believe you may be well alarmed To stand before your judge.



SCENE III.

Enter the EARL OF SHREWSBURY.

MARY. 'Tis not for that, O God! Far other thoughts possess me now. Oh, worthy Shrewsbury! You come as though You were an angel sent to me from heaven. I cannot, will not see her. Save me, save me From the detested sight!

SHREWSBURY. Your majesty, Command yourself, and summon all your courage, 'Tis the decisive moment of your fate.

MARY. For years I've waited, and prepared myself. For this I've studied, weighed, and written down Each word within the tablet of my memory That was to touch and move her to compassion. Forgotten suddenly, effaced is all, And nothing lives within me at this moment But the fierce, burning feeling of my wrongs. My heart is turned to direst hate against her; All gentle thoughts, all sweet forgiving words, Are gone, and round me stand with grisly mien, The fiends of hell, and shake their snaky locks!

SHREWSBURY. Command your wild, rebellious blood;—constrain The bitterness which fills your heart. No good Ensues when hatred is opposed to hate. How much soe'er the inward struggle cost You must submit to stern necessity, The power is in her hand, be therefore humble.

MARY. To her? I never can.

SHREWSBURY. But pray, submit. Speak with respect, with calmness! Strive to move Her magnanimity; insist not now Upon your rights, not now—'tis not the season.

MARY. Ah! woe is me! I've prayed for my destruction, And, as a curse to me, my prayer is heard. We never should have seen each other—never! Oh, this can never, never come to good. Rather in love could fire and water meet, The timid lamb embrace the roaring tiger! I have been hurt too grievously; she hath Too grievously oppressed me;—no atonement Can make us friends!

SHREWSBURY. First see her, face to face: Did I not see how she was moved at reading Your letter? How her eyes were drowned in tears? No—she is not unfeeling; only place More confidence in her. It was for this That I came on before her, to entreat you To be collected—to admonish you——

MARY (seizing his hand). Oh, Talbot! you have ever been my friend, Had I but stayed beneath your kindly care! They have, indeed, misused me, Shrewsbury.

SHREWSBURY. Let all be now forgot, and only think How to receive her with submissiveness.

MARY. Is Burleigh with her, too, my evil genius?

SHREWSBURY. No one attends her but the Earl of Leicester.

MARY. Lord Leicester?

SHREWSBURY. Fear not him; it is not he Who wishes your destruction;—'twas his work That here the queen hath granted you this meeting.

MARY. Ah! well I knew it.

SHREWSBURY. What?

PAULET. The queen approaches.

[They all draw aside; MARY alone remains, leaning on KENNEDY.



SCENE IV.

The same, ELIZABETH, EARL OF LEICESTER, and Retinue.

ELIZABETH (to LEICESTER). What seat is that, my lord?

LEICESTER. 'Tis Fotheringay.

ELIZABETH (to SHREWSBURY). My lord, send back our retinue to London; The people crowd too eager in the roads, We'll seek a refuge in this quiet park.

[TALBOT sends the train away. She looks steadfastly at MARY, as she speaks further with PAULET.

My honest people love me overmuch. These signs of joy are quite idolatrous. Thus should a God be honored, not a mortal.

MARY (who the whole time had leaned, almost fainting, on KENNEDY, rises now, and her eyes meet the steady, piercing look of ELIZABETH; she shudders and throws herself again upon KENNEDY'S bosom). O God! from out these features speaks no heart.

ELIZABETH. What lady's that?

[A general, embarrassed silence.

LEICESTER. You are at Fotheringay, My liege!

ELIZABETH (as if surprised, casting an angry look at LEICESTER). Who hath done this, my Lord of Leicester?

LEICESTER. 'Tis past, my queen;—and now that heaven hath led Your footsteps hither, be magnanimous; And let sweet pity be triumphant now.

SHREWSBURY. Oh, royal mistress! yield to our entreaties; Oh, cast your eyes on this unhappy one Who stands dissolved in anguish.

[MARY collects herself, and begins to advance towards ELIZABETH, stops shuddering at half way: her action expresses the most violent internal struggle.

ELIZABETH. How, my lords! Which of you then announced to me a prisoner Bowed down by woe? I see a haughty one By no means humbled by calamity.

MARY. Well, be it so:—to this will I submit. Farewell high thought, and pride of noble mind! I will forget my dignity, and all My sufferings; I will fall before her feet Who hath reduced me to this wretchedness.

[She turns towards the QUEEN.

The voice of heaven decides for you, my sister. Your happy brows are now with triumph crowned, I bless the Power Divine which thus hath raised you. But in your turn be merciful, my sister; [She kneels. Let me not lie before you thus disgraced; Stretch forth your hand, your royal hand, to raise Your sister from the depths of her distress.

ELIZABETH (stepping back). You are where it becomes you, Lady Stuart; And thankfully I prize my God's protection, Who hath not suffered me to kneel a suppliant Thus at your feet, as you now kneel at mine.

MARY (with increasing energy of feeling). Think on all earthly things, vicissitudes. Oh! there are gods who punish haughty pride: Respect them, honor them, the dreadful ones Who thus before thy feet have humbled me! Before these strangers' eyes dishonor not Yourself in me: profane not, nor disgrace The royal blood of Tudor. In my veins It flows as pure a stream as in your own. Oh, for God's pity, stand not so estranged And inaccessible, like some tall cliff, Which the poor shipwrecked mariner in vain Struggles to seize, and labors to embrace. My all, my life, my fortune now depends Upon the influence of my words and tears; That I may touch your heart, oh, set mine free. If you regard me with those icy looks My shuddering heart contracts itself, the stream Of tears is dried, and frigid horror chains The words of supplication in my bosom!

ELIZABETH (cold and severe). What would you say to me, my Lady Stuart? You wished to speak with me; and I, forgetting The queen, and all the wrongs I have sustained, Fulfil the pious duty of the sister, And grant the boon you wished for of my presence. Yet I, in yielding to the generous feelings Of magnanimity, expose myself To rightful censure, that I stoop so low. For well you know you would have had me murdered.

MARY. Oh! how shall I begin? Oh, how shall I So artfully arrange my cautious words That they may touch, yet not offend your heart? Strengthen my words, O Heaven! and take from them Whate'er might wound. Alas! I cannot speak In my own cause without impeaching you, And that most heavily, I wish not so; You have not as you ought behaved to me: I am a queen, like you: yet you have held me Confined in prison. As a suppliant I came to you, yet you in me insulted The pious use of hospitality; Slighting in me the holy law of nations, Immured me in a dungeon—tore from me My friends and servants; to unseemly want I was exposed, and hurried to the bar Of a disgraceful, insolent tribunal. No more of this;—in everlasting silence Be buried all the cruelties I suffered! See—I will throw the blame of all on fate, 'Twere not your fault, no more than it was mine. An evil spirit rose from the abyss, To kindle in our hearts the flame of hate, By which our tender youth had been divided. It grew with us, and bad, designing men Fanned with their ready breath the fatal fire: Frantics, enthusiasts, with sword and dagger Armed the uncalled-for hand! This is the curse Of kings, that they, divided, tear the world In pieces with their hatred, and let loose The raging furies of all hellish strife! No foreign tongue is now between us, sister,

[Approaching her confidently, and with a flattering tone.

Now stand we face to face; now, sister, speak: Name but my crime, I'll fully satisfy you,— Alas! had you vouchsafed to hear me then, When I so earnest sought to meet your eye, It never would have come to this, nor would, Here in this mournful place, have happened now This so distressful, this so mournful meeting.

ELIZABETH. My better stars preserved me. I was warned, And laid not to my breast the poisonous adder! Accuse not fate! your own deceitful heart It was, the wild ambition of your house As yet no enmities had passed between us, When your imperious uncle, the proud priest, Whose shameless hand grasps at all crowns, attacked me With unprovoked hostility, and taught You, but too docile, to assume my arms, To vest yourself with my imperial title, And meet me in the lists in mortal strife: What arms employed he not to storm my throne? The curses of the priests, the people's sword, The dreadful weapons of religious frenzy;— Even here in my own kingdom's peaceful haunts He fanned the flames of civil insurrection; But God is with me, and the haughty priest Has not maintained the field. The blow was aimed Full at my head, but yours it is which falls!

MARY. I'm in the hand of heaven. You never will Exert so cruelly the power it gives you.

ELIZABETH. Who shall prevent me? Say, did not your uncle Set all the kings of Europe the example, How to conclude a peace with those they hate. Be mine the school of Saint Bartholomew; What's kindred then to me, or nation's laws? The church can break the bands of every duty; It consecrates the regicide, the traitor; I only practise what your priests have taught! Say then, what surety can be offered me, Should I magnanimously loose your bonds? Say, with what lock can I secure your faith, Which by Saint Peter's keys cannot be opened? Force is my only surety; no alliance Can be concluded with a race of vipers.

MARY. Oh! this is but your wretched, dark suspicion! For you have constantly regarded me But as a stranger, and an enemy. Had you declared me heir to your dominions, As is my right, then gratitude and love In me had fixed, for you, a faithful friend And kinswoman.

ELIZABETH. Your friendship is abroad, Your house is papacy, the monk your brother. Name you my successor! The treacherous snare! That in my life you might seduce my people; And, like a sly Armida, in your net Entangle all our noble English youth; That all might turn to the new rising sun, And I——

MARY. O sister, rule your realm in peace; I give up every claim to these domains— Alas! the pinions of my soul are lamed; Greatness entices me no more: your point Is gained; I am but Mary's shadow now— My noble spirit is at last broke down By long captivity:—you've done your worst On me; you have destroyed me in my bloom! Now, end your work, my sister;—speak at length The word, which to pronounce has brought you hither; For I will ne'er believe that you are come, To mock unfeelingly your hapless victim. Pronounce this word;—say, "Mary, you are free: You have already felt my power,—learn now To honor too my generosity." Say this, and I will take my life, will take My freedom, as a present from your hands. One word makes all undone;—I wait for it;— Oh, let it not be needlessly delayed. Woe to you if you end not with this word! For should you not, like some divinity, Dispensing noble blessings, quit me now, Then, sister, not for all this island's wealth, For all the realms encircled by the deep, Would I exchange my present lot for yours.

ELIZABETH. And you confess at last that you are conquered: Are all your schemes run out? No more assassins Now on the road? Will no adventurer Attempt again for you the sad achievement? Yes, madam, it is over:—you'll seduce No mortal more. The world has other cares;— None is ambitious of the dangerous honor Of being your fourth husband—you destroy Your wooers like your husbands.

MARY (starting angrily). Sister, sister!— Grant me forbearance, all ye powers of heaven!

ELIZABETH (regards her long with a look of proud contempt). Those then, my Lord of Leicester, are the charms Which no man with impunity can view, Near which no woman dare to stand? In sooth, this honor has been cheaply gained; She who to all is common, may with ease Become the common object of applause.

MARY. This is too much!

ELIZABETH (laughing insultingly). You show us now, indeed, Your real face; till now 'twas but the mask.

MARY (burning with rage, yet dignified and noble). My sins were human, and the faults of youth: Superior force misled me. I have never Denied or sought to hide it: I despised All false appearance, as became a queen. The worst of me is known, and I can say, That I am better than the fame I bear. Woe to you! when, in time to come, the world Shall draw the robe of honor from your deeds, With which thy arch-hypocrisy has veiled The raging flames of lawless, secret lust. Virtue was not your portion from your mother; Well know we what it was which brought the head Of Anna Boleyn to the fatal block.

SHREWSBURY (stepping between both QUEENS). Oh! Heaven! Alas, and must it come to this! Is this the moderation, the submission, My lady?——

MARY. Moderation! I've supported What human nature can support: farewell, Lamb-hearted resignation, passive patience, Fly to thy native heaven; burst at length Thy bonds, come forward from thy dreary cave, In all thy fury, long suppressed rancor! And thou, who to the angered basilisk Impart'st the murderous glance, oh, arm my tongue With poisoned darts!

SHREWSBURY. She is beside herself! Exasperated, mad! My liege, forgive her.

[ELIZABETH, speechless with anger, casts enraged looks at MARY.

LEICESTER (in the most violent agitation; he seeks to lead ELIZABETH away). Attend not to her rage! Away, away, From this disastrous place!

MARY (raising her voice). A bastard soils, Profanes the English throne! The generous Britons Are cheated by a juggler, [whose whole figure Is false and painted, heart as well as face!] If right prevailed, you now would in the dust Before me lie, for I'm your rightful monarch!

[ELIZABETH hastily quits the stage; the lords follow her in the greatest consternation.



SCENE V.

MARY, KENNEDY.

KENNEDY. What have you done? She has gone hence in wrath All hope is over now!

MARY (still quite beside herself). Gone hence in wrath! She carries death within her heart! I know it.

[Falling on KENNEDY'S bosom.

Now I am happy, Hannah! and at last, After whole years of sorrow and abasement, One moment of victorious revenge A weight falls off my heart, a weight of mountains; I plunged the steel in my oppressor's breast!

KENNEDY. Unhappy lady! Frenzy overcomes you. Yes, you have wounded your inveterate foe; 'Tis she who wields the lightning, she is queen, You have insulted her before her minion.

MARY. I have abased her before Leicester's eyes; He saw it, he was witness of my triumph. How did I hurl her from her haughty height, He saw it, and his presence strengthened me.



SCENE VI.

Enter MORTIMER.

KENNEDY. Oh, Sir! What an occurrence!

MORTIMER. I heard all—

[Gives the nurse a sign to repair to her post, and draws nearer; his whole appearance expresses the utmost violence of passion.

Thine is the palm;—thou trod'st her to the dust!— Thou wast the queen, she was the malefactor;— I am transported with thy noble courage;— Yes! I adore thee; like a Deity, My sense is dazzled by thy heavenly beams.

MARY (with vivacity and expectation). You spoke with Leicester, gave my letter to him. My present, too?—oh, speak, sir.

MORTIMER (beholding her with glowing looks). How thy noble, Thy royal indignation shone, and cast A glory round thy beauty; yes, by heavens, Thou art the fairest woman upon earth!

MARY. Sir, satisfy, I beg you, my impatience; What says his lordship? Say, sir, may I hope?

MORTIMER. Who?—he?—he is a wretch, a very coward, Hope naught from him; despise him, and forget him!

MARY. What say you?

MORTIMER. He deliver, and possess you! Why let him dare it:—he!—he must with me In mortal contest first deserve the prize!

MARY. You gave him not my letter? Then, indeed My hopes are lost!

MORTIMER. The coward loves his life. Whoe'er would rescue you, and call you his, Must boldly dare affront e'en death itself!

MARY. Will he do nothing for me?

MORTIMER. Speak not of him. What can he do? What need have we of him? I will release you; I alone.

MARY. Alas! What power have you?

MORTIMER. Deceive yourself no more; Think not your case is now as formerly; The moment that the queen thus quitted you, And that your interview had ta'en this turn, All hope was lost, each way of mercy shut. Now deeds must speak, now boldness must decide, To compass all must all be hazarded; You must be free before the morning break.

MARY. What say you, sir—to-night?—impossible!

MORTIMER. Hear what has been resolved:—I led my friends Into a private chapel, where a priest Heard our confession, and, for every sin We had committed, gave us absolution; He gave us absolution too, beforehand, For every crime we might commit in future; He gave us too the final sacrament, And we are ready for the final journey.

MARY. Oh, what an awful, dreadful preparation!

MORTIMER. We scale, this very night, the castle's walls; The keys are in my power; the guards we murder! Then from thy chamber bear thee forcibly. Each living soul must die beneath our hands, That none remain who might disclose the deed.

MARY. And Drury, Paulet, my two keepers, they Would sooner spill their dearest drop of blood.

MORTIMER. They fall the very first beneath my steel.

MARY. What, sir! Your uncle? How! Your second father!

MORTIMER. Must perish by my hand—I murder him!

MARY. Oh, bloody outrage!

MORTIMER. We have been absolved Beforehand; I may perpetrate the worst; I can, I will do so!

MARY. Oh, dreadful, dreadful!

MORTIMER. And should I be obliged to kill the queen, I've sworn upon the host, it must be done!

MARY. No, Mortimer; ere so much blood for me——

MORTIMER. What is the life of all compared to thee, And to my love? The bond which holds the world Together may be loosed, a second deluge Come rolling on, and swallow all creation! Henceforth I value nothing; ere I quit My hold on thee, may earth and time be ended!

MARY (retiring) Heavens! Sir, what language, and what looks! They scare, They frighten me!

MORTIMER (with unsteady looks, expressive of great madness). Life's but a moment—death Is but a moment too. Why! let them drag me To Tyburn, let them tear me limb from limb, With red-hot pincers—— [Violently approaching her with extended arms. If I clasp but thee Within my arms, thou fervently beloved!

MARY. Madman, avaunt!

MORTIMER. To rest upon this bosom, To press upon this passion-breathing mouth——

MARY. Leave me, for God's sake, sir; let me go in——

MORTIMER. He is a madman who neglects to clasp His bliss in folds that never may be loosed, When Heaven has kindly given it to his arms. I will deliver you, and though it cost A thousand lives, I do it; but I swear, As God's in Heaven I will possess you too!

MARY. Oh! will no God, no angel shelter me? Dread destiny! thou throwest me, in thy wrath, From one tremendous terror to the other! Was I then born to waken naught but frenzy? Do hate and love conspire alike to fright me!

MORTIMER. Yes, glowing as their hatred is my love; They would behead thee, they would wound this neck, So dazzling white, with the disgraceful axe! Oh! offer to the living god of joy What thou must sacrifice to bloody hate! Inspire thy happy lover with those charms Which are no more thine own. Those golden locks Are forfeit to the dismal powers of death, Oh! use them to entwine thy slave forever!

MARY. Alas! alas! what language must I hear! My woe, my sufferings should be sacred to you, Although my royal brows are so no more.

MORTIMER. The crown is fallen from thy brows, thou hast No more of earthly majesty. Make trial, Raise thy imperial voice, see if a friend, If a deliverer will rise to save you. Thy moving form alone remains, the high, The godlike influence of thy heavenly beauty; This bids me venture all, this arms my hand With might, and drives me tow'rd the headsman's axe.

MARY. Oh! who will save me from his raging madness?

MORTIMER. Service that's bold demands a bold reward. Why shed their blood the daring? Is not life Life's highest good? And he a madman who Casts life away? First will I take my rest, Upon the breast that glows with love's own fire!

[He presses her violently to his bosom.

MARY. Oh, must I call for help against the man Who would deliver me!

MORTIMER. Thou'rt not unfeeling, The world ne'er censured thee for frigid rigor; The fervent prayer of love can touch thy heart. Thou mad'st the minstrel Rizzio blest, and gavest Thyself a willing prey to Bothwell's arms.

MARY. Presumptuous man!

MORTIMER. He was indeed thy tyrant, Thou trembled'st at his rudeness, whilst thou loved'st him; Well, then—if only terror can obtain thee— By the infernal gods!

MARY. Away—you're mad!

MORTIMER. I'll teach thee then before me, too, to tremble.

KENNEDY (entering suddenly). They're coming—they approach—the park is filled With men in arms.

MORTIMER (starting and catching at his sword). I will defend you-I——

MARY. O Hannah! save me, save me from his hands. Where shall I find, poor sufferer, an asylum? Oh! to what saint shall I address my prayers? Here force assails me, and within is murder!

[She flies towards the house, KENNEDY follows her.



SCENE VII.

MORTIMER, PAULET, and DRURY rush in in the greatest consternation. Attendants hasten over the stage.