SCENE I.
In the gilded Chamber of the House of Bores. That usually empty Chamber is full, and the galleries around, crowded. The centre of attraction is Bernia’s Prince, Shafto, who has entered the lists in defence of his feudatory subject, Vulnar, lord of Avenamore, who has been attained of high treason, for aiding and abetting the rescue of Vergli.—Vulnar and Vergli are at large, as also Fortunatus. Against all three a warrant for arrest is out.
The Prince of Bernia: “Is it a crime to speak the truth? Methinks We live amidst a sea of seething lies, Wallowing therein like the proverbial whale, Who with a guzzle, down which e’en a prawn Is passed with difficulty, swallowed up, Miraculously, of course, a tough old seer, Who proved, however, indigestible, So that the whale emitted him again, Unchewed, whole and unmasticated. Oh! What lies we wallow in and teach our Youth, The whole time crying like a hypocrite, ‘Speak not a lie, ’tis an abomination.’ Just so my Bores, that’s how I class it too, And so I’ll speak the Truth just for a change. ’Tis rather foreign to these gilded walls, But try and give it courteous reception. I see His Graciousness the Arch Ardrigh, Looking a bit ungracious and severe, I pray him don a less depressing mien, Religion should incarnate scenes of peace, Not war, resentment, animosity! Now to my subject. You condemn Vulnar, Lord of the boreship of fair Avenamore, Attaint him traitor to our lord the King, Because he rescued from a cruel death The King’s own son, bone of his very bone. You dub him and young Fortunatus, too, Murd’rers, assassins. How so? Did they plan Murder or assassination either? Not so. But while engaged in rescuing The prisoner from the van, unluckily, A bullet, fired by some conspiritor, Into the key lock, having done its work, Passed on and most unfortunately lodged Within the heart of the policeman Grett, Killing him as a natural consequence. For this you call these men foul murderers, If they be such then soldiers are assassins. Malice aforethought surely is alone The only sculptor of the murderer? You bid me bar my principality Against Vulnar, and Fortunatus too, And war against them as state enemies. But I assert they are not such, but friends, Faithful to Hector, our liege lord and King. My bores, I know Vergli; his soul is high He simply works for Justice and for Truth, He advocates fair play to every man, To every living, moving, sentient thing. His creed is, ‘Follow Nature, It is God, Inscrutable, but not impossible.’ The God to whom you offer sacrifice And before whom you kneel like hypocrites, Is an impossible, a defamed God, A brazen serpent reared aloft by Man, Dyspeptic Man, who dreamed a nightmare dream, And forthwith called it the Almighty God! Almighty lie! I call it, yes, my bores, Lie of Nightmare and of Indigestion. Vergli would purge our stomachs of this lie, And heal the wounds its foul disease has wrought. Bring peace on earth and goodwill to the world. Why should we live to kill, and to oppress? Why should a small majority laugh loud, Wrapped in the lap of luxury and ease, While the majority lives in trouble And writhes within the arms of poverty? Why should I wear fine clothes and eat good food, My brother in the street wear rags and starve? Vergli would end this, and moreover give To Woman the inherent rights she claims, Which your dyspeptic creed has filched from her, Making of her the puppet that she is. Vergli claims to be Prince of Scota too, He says that Merani was Hector’s wife. Nature, the One, true God, declares this too. Is Vergli wrong for clinging to the Right? My bores, I, Shafto, Prince of Bernia, cry, He is not wrong. He is the soul of truth, The soul of honour and of equity, The enemy of Selfish Privilege. He does not ask for the impossible, He does not prate of Man’s equality, He is not of the Anarchist brigade Whose muddle puddle laws would chaos breed. He simply asks that all men born should live, And have the opportunity to thrive, And not be born the disinherited. Just pause a moment. Let us think. Suppose, Just for the sake of argument I pray, That when we die, our Soul, which I believe Is out of matter forming Mind and Thought, Should peradventure take possession of A life in an embryo state, and step Either into this sphere, or say, elsewhere. Would you not like to think that soul of yours Will not become the tenant of a slave, A Disinherited, a Misery, But rather a free mortal born to live And make the most of Nature’s Gift of Life? Remember, ‘every mongrel has its day,’ If Life is as I say, you may become One of the disinherited of Erth. Or of that distant planet we call ‘Light,’ And who, perhaps, calls us ‘The Moon.’ Just now, A whisper in my ear says its real name Is Earth, and that our Erth is called ‘The Moon’ By this same Earth whom we have christened ‘Light.’ That whisper is a thought, a solid touch, Which woos my mind, making its presence felt. E’en as a soft wind plays upon my cheek, Telling me that it is a thing of Life, Although invisible to that thick mass, That shape Material or Body called, Which is the Tabernacle of the Mind, And of that ethereal substance known as thought, That loadstone which shall draw truths Unknown, Once we develop perfect tenements, Worthy of Thought increased a millionfold, With power to read the past, the future, All, And fathom what to our embryo minds Is now a veiled and hidden mystery. My bores, Vergli and Vulnar you condemn, And youthful Fortunatus likewise stands, Marked as an object for the hangman’s rope. Would you commit so terrible a crime As to deprive those three of Nature’s breath, For acts which are not crimes? Pause, think, my bores, Are they deserving of a death so drear? I pray you, join your signatures to mine, Ay, every member of The House of Bores, Entreating the King’s Gracious Majesty To pardon and accord fair Liberty To Vergli, Fortunatus, and Vulnar. They are not felons; two are noble men, One, a brave youth, full of enthusiasm. Treat them no more as disinheriteds, But as three loyal subjects of our King. My bores, I, Prince of Bernia, sue for them: Most earnestly I pray you grant my prayer.”
[Sits down.
Sanctimonious (who has risen): “And I as earnestly beseech you all To turn a deaf ear to Prince Shafto’s prayer. Vergli is an attainted criminal, Condemned to death for treason to the State, And treason likewise to Most Holy Church, Vulnar and Fortunatus are condemned By that great voice, Public Opinion, called; My bores, away with Sentiment, face Fact. What are the facts justly condemning them? Vergli has sought to overturn the State, And sweep our Church away. Absolutely! ’Tis treason to our Sovereign lord, the King. He is the head of both our Church and State. Treason demands the penalty of Death, And Vergli stood condemned of this foul crime, And sentenced to the punishment it merits. When Vulnar, Fortunatus, and some more Defied the law and rescued him from death, Dealing death to another in the act. The blood of Grett is on their hands and heads, He died a brave man in the cause of duty. These rebels shot him down. They murdered him. They took his life that Vergli’s might be saved. Yet Bernia’s prince would see them pardoned! Faith! ’Twould be foul sacrilege to pardon such. Our constitution rests on Church and State, My bores, protect it most tenaciously.”
[Sits down.
Prime Minister (Sirocco, lord of Darbytire) rising: “My bores; the Ardrigh’s words are golden grail, Dropping from Heaven like the Manna food. Eat up his words and treasure them as truth, Truth, the protector of your native land. The awful fiend of Revolution lives, Scotched, but not killed. Vergli would overturn Not only Church and State, but revered law, Make free of other people’s property, Turn Woman into Man, and make men Slaves, Abolish wages, crown Co-operation. Think what his wild schemes would impose on us. Think how the Millionaire would suffer, too? Co-operation! Why, ’twould give all men The right to claim employment, and to share The profits of these human Storage Ants! What call you this, my bores, but Spoilation, That spoilation spelling Thievery? To pardon Vergli, Vulnar, and the Youth Would mean surrender to dishonesty. And that the least. Behold! our noble Church, A relic of the ancient days of old, Part of a great tradition threatened now. It is the fabric of Morality, And all the notions that we love and cherish. True, it has not opposed the fiend of War, And it has dabbled over much in blood; But these are peccadilloes. Wink at them! We must not show up Godly indiscretions. So, too, it is a most important fact That men must toil, that other men may reap, That animals must moan, that we may laugh. To seek to overthrow these saintly laws, Laws nestling in our Church’s tender arms, Would mean destruction of the principle, ‘Might is our Right,’ which we laboriously Have made an Axiom of, and must uphold. No, no, my bores, Stand to your guns. Be firm. You have the press and nation at your back. Capital must not be robbed by Sentiment. The Brotherhood of Man is dreadful fudge, The God of Nature far too practical. Don’t let the people get the wind of them, They’d start full cry upon the scent. Oh! dear, The notion even, is too terrible; Banish it as a thing impossible. The House of Common persons has declined To sign this base petition to the King, Why should the House of Bores act otherwise? It is its bounden duty to the State, As also to the Holy Church of Erth, To give a stern denial to the prayer Which Bernia’s prince addresses here to-day. I call on you, my bores, to now uphold The great traditions of Saxscoberland.”
The prayer of The Prince of Bernia is rejected.