This precious stone
Apropos of prevailing events, consider this soliloquy in Richard II.
It is a powerful one and among the history’s most famous, which is interesting since it appears early on and is not delivered by the titular kinged then unkinged Richard, but by his sick uncle, John of Gaunt.
The Duke in this scene is dying, bitter and regretful that his son (and would-be usurper), Bolingbroke, has been cruelly exiled by Richard. After a lifetime of reverent duty to his King, the Duke is the first to realize and to have the courage to name the corrosion of Richard’s reign. His is the first whispered conception of a discrepancy between country and monarch, of loyalties to one that prick the other.
Act 2, scene 1
JOHN OF GAUNT
Methinks I am a prophet new inspired
And thus expiring do foretell of him:
His rash fierce blaze of riot cannot last,
For violent fires soon burn out themselves;
Small showers last long, but sudden storms are short;
He tires betimes that spurs too fast betimes;
With eager feeding food doth choke the feeder:
Light vanity, insatiate cormorant,
Consuming means, soon preys upon itself.
This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands,
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,
This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,
Fear'd by their breed and famous by their birth,
Renowned for their deeds as far from home,
For Christian service and true chivalry,
As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry,
Of the world's ransom, blessed Mary's Son,
This land of such dear souls, this dear dear land,
Dear for her reputation through the world,
Is now leased out, I die pronouncing it,
Like to a tenement or pelting farm:
England, bound in with the triumphant sea
Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege
Of watery Neptune, is now bound in with shame,
With inky blots and rotten parchment bonds:
That England, that was wont to conquer others,
Hath made a shameful conquest of itself.
Ah, would the scandal vanish with my life,
How happy then were my ensuing death!
Love for country, for the land itself and for the dear souls that people it, brings the most loyal of subjects to spurn the divine right of kings. It is the first sharp turn of a play whose drama unfolds within its characters, rather than among them. What I find almost unbearably beautiful is the extended dedication to England, which I have bolded. A deep, faithful, mournful love of country. Easily borrowed for our own moment.
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
(Before a little dot, a precious stone…)
Oriented as I am outward toward the world, I feel fortunate to have been homed in such a way that these lines still move me so intuitively. This election season, more so than previous ones, I am convinced it is right for us to care and be invested, to read, follow, believe, anticipate, worry, debate, lament, speculate, delude. The exertion is worthwhile, surely, for the centers of our universes — for this seat of Mars / this other Eden.
See you back in the weeds in 2030.
Love always,
Rebecca