SOLILOQUY of a BARD

in the PULPIT

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Cast

Lord Byron

Hon. Catherine Byron

Susan, the Maid

Reverend Becher

Three Southwell Belles

 

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SCENE 1

 

Southwell, 1806 -  Byron's racy “Fugitive Pieces” has just been published 

 

CB: Byronnnne!! - your lamp is keeping the village awake - 'tis now the noon of night and all is still
B: Aye Mother - except this hapless rhymer and his quill
CB: Reverend Becher gives a sermon at seven! - child, ye have done your bit by Poesy - there can be only one Robert Southey - you must prepare for the responsibilities of land ownership, lawfully begotten offspring and restoring the Gordon fortunes 

B: Perchance you are right Madam. Since dusk, in vain I have called each Muse in order down - which like other females, sometimes frown (retires quill) - oons! - how I fret, and I fume - those critics! (snaps quill) - the humble offerings of my Muse they destroy - and crush, oh noble conquest! - crush a Boy!

CB: och - let me take care of them! I shall have the fire-tongs at them yet! 
B: What avails it thus to waste my time, to roll in Epic, or to rave in Rhyme? What worth is some few partial readers' praise, if ancient Virgins croaking censures raise?

CB: Never mind the ancient ladies - you have the Belles in a state of ready combat, each believing themselves to be the asterisks of your dedications

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Soft tap on the door - the maid Susan enters

 

S: Beg pardon - the Reverend awaits below - without his nightcap or stockings

B: Susan - follow me with the lamp downstairs

CB(to S): I'll take that Missy - back to your washtubs

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The shambolic Rev is met in the hall

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REV: 'Tis midnight my Lord - the whole village believe Burgage Manor to be in the pre-emptory stages of conflagration

CB: T'was but his Lordship attempting - nay, failing - to re-light his Muse

REV(walking in circles): I fear we are both bereft of inspiration my dear Byron (looks to heaven) Oh for a forty-parson power to chant Thy praise!! Oh for trumps of cherubim! (clasps head) - I have nothing ready for Matins! - I must get bonnets on seats 'ere I lose my living!

B: Here - a warm drop Becher (Susan fetches the port) - sit, please - surely now, where few attend, 'tis useless to indite - where few can read - 'tis folly sure to write?

REV: Nay my Lord - sermons of a low pot-house nature are all the go these days - handsome young curates with honey'd voices, prancing about the pulpit baring red, yea red!, stockings (shakes head) - unless my flock increase - there is naught here for myself and Mrs. Becher

S: There was a generation wholly without a preacher in t' village my Lord - until the Reverend came, we were wickéd all - and in peril of numerous genetic deficiencies 

REV: Indeed Susan - but Parsons as well as other folks must live - from rage I rail not, rather say from dread - I do not preach for Virtue, but for my very bread

S: Please, may I sue? (B nods) If your Lordship attended every Sunday, irradiating the pews with the light of your Countenance, his reverences audiences may improve (thinks) perchance arrayed in an Eelskin suit, like all the London beaus?

REV: Susan! - you have it!

B: ah 'n oons! (S and the R are somewhat moisty-eyed)  tsk! (rolls eyes) - very well! at what hour shall I attend ?

REV: Seven in the morning - anon my Lord - Susan (tips absent nightcap)

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B shakes head at S  - fixes her cap to ensure no wisps of auburn hair get caught in the wringer

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SCENE 2

 

Service has ended - lunch is being served in Burgage Manor

REV: Now, my Lord - I rely on your frankness - dost thou fear an interview at the celestial gate when thy carcass is dust? Wilt thou love thy neighbour more fulsomely - or less, in your case, - than before? 

B: In truth my friend - although my pew is as grim as a bed of peach-stones - I nodded off

CB: Byron! (attempts a box on the ear) - Och - a heathen, Becher - just like his father, God rest him

B: Hold your tongue and the back of your hand, you damnable ox! - I have a rescue plan for our dear Reverend

REV: You shan't be attending service?

B: Southwell's charms cannot hold me forever - but I shall assist your living yet - Susan! take notes (paces). Firstly Becher - the women are your target audience, for they have aught left to them except religion - and bairns - once you subtract their neglectful, extramaritally questionable spouses (rubs dimpled chin) Secondly, you must attend to your ecclesiasticals - there are always pudding and mutton stains on your bib

CB: Susan will service - she is an excellent tubswoman - when you can keep her below stairs (glares)

B: Now - to your sermonising (pauses) - mmm - where none but girls and striplings dare admire, and critics rise in every country Squire - yea, as a published author even my candid Muse admits - when Peers are poets, Parsons may as well all be wits!

 

Chuckles all round

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REV: Oons - preaching in the mode of an ineffectual poet may yield success yet! - a beating of wings rather than a pitchfork to the nethers (sighs) - alas! I do not have the hair or the air for it (shrugs) - and 'tis many years since I was a schoolboy who could vent my amorous flames in verse
CB: Becher! Matrons - including myself - will most certainly disperse 'ere their characters - or chastity - you asperse!

B: Don't heed Mrs. B's loathsome matrons, they  know you love their Sex too well even unprovoked aggression to repel - now to our task - have you enough ink Susan? (S nods) - excellent - fine collars Susan gives me - ah! country washing - vital, vital! for the finished Gentleman, according to Brummel 

CB (interjects): Mr. Spooney, our chemist, could compound an hypnotic, aromatic poultice for the pulpit - och, if he hadn't concocted one for this house - I would nary see a guest for the olfactory assaults from - that - that beastie!! (points to Boatswain)

REV: This is all coming along nicely - clean linen, fragrance - flattery to the Matrons - a poets air about me 

B: I shall tear off - yea - 50 sermons for you - some trouser-rousers for the yeomen, challenging sermons on the dubious value of chastity for our single-Belles - and a thunderer for Lent

CB: I'm not sure the Bishop would approve, Byron - even Wilmot's verse was far more pure than thine

REV: er - they shan't be too warmly drawn - the sermons - eh?

B: Nay preacher - sadly, that Muse has departed - my future strain will be focused on harvest schedules, court lists and whatever fruitless spoutings my fellow lame-duck-lords require in the House (sighs)

S: Oh! - no more poesy my Lord? (dabs eyes)

B: What, though some silly girls have lov'd the strain? - and kindly bade me tune my Lyre again? (scoffs) What, though some feeling or some partial few - nay - men of  Taste and Reputation too, - have deign'd to praise the firstlings of my Muse? No more scribblings my fair washerwoman - not while there's holes in the roof and vacancies in my cellar

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SCENE 3

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Church fills, heads dart expectantly for B - the congregation is tormented with Mrs.Bechers “O for a Thousand Tongues to Sing”, befogged with incense and sneezing uncontrollably at the clean scent of freshly-mown hay - however, the Rev leaps onto the pulpit - curled, immaculate and well-fortified

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REV: Rise, fellow sinners - for today I bring you word of the Lord through the wingèd words of a poet

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Gasps ensue

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REV: Yea unto thee - this day and henceforth shall ye bring all members of your extended families, retainers, chars, well-mannered livestock unto Sunday service - are you clear? hear me??

ALL: Yes, father

REV: Right, well - we shall now muse (coughs) - on the origin of Love (congregation starts) - yes, well - erm - (swallows and bravely continues) - Ruth sayeth to Noah - “No jargon of priests o'er our union was mutter'd, To rivet the fetters of husband and wife; By our lips, by our hearts, were our vows alone utter'd, To perform them, in full, would ask more than a life" (looks to sacristy) - erm - Noah? - no - Mahlon - yes - Mahlon replieth “Oh! then let us drain, while we may, draughts of pleasure, Which from passion like ours will unceasingly flow; Let us pass round the cup of love's bliss in full measure, And quaff the contents as our nectar below" 

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More gasps ensue

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REV: There endeth the lesson for today - Mrs. Becher - the plate

ALL: Nay!

B1: Has God proclaim'd the fate of his creatures?

B2: Do their fond bosoms regret whilst adoring? 

B3: Did Ruth surrendereth herself unto Mahlon?
REV: All shall be revealed next Sunday - spoiler! their breasts - which, alive with sympathy - will still glow

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Applause and cheers from the congregation - R sashays from pulpit - meets B in the sacristy

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B: Zounds Becher! well done (shakes hand and pours a bumper of communion wine) - for a man of the cloth, you spoke with considerable passion

REV: I shall be bereft of sermons yet again a year hence, my Lord - perhaps I can recycle - no, that should make me gravely nervous

B: Keep your stockings red, your hair curled - and be damned Becher - they'll forget they're even at  Service!

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Faces of village girls appear at the window of the sacristy, waving insanely at Rev Becher, ignoring B

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REV: What can be this hysteria, my Lord? Over a sermon - not even my own! - why, I never had the least intention to offer a godlike bribe - or ambition to gain supernatural notoriety

B(yelling to make himself heard): To the devil to them! (looks out window) - what is this? - why, Susan!!(feels oddly betrayed - closes curtains) humph! there's absurd womankind made flesh, Becher - she'll have her pound of poesy yet!(grinds teeth) - if I  knew preachifying was so very thrilling to chaste young washerwomen, I may well have taken orders myself (muses: mmm a black cassock and white collar? - e'en Brummel would approve) - as it is, I am honoured to have aided your plight, but shall return to the infernal regions of the Capital tonight

REV: For pity, my Lord - to the duties of the House? - yea, the recruitment of a spouse?

B: Indeed not, my friend - for the Muse hath returned! - admittedly via the highly unlikely conduit of your congregation (ladies are now hammering at the door) - see how much the fair ones still find my morals shocking, though my rhymes are fair (smirks) - as it is, I needn't forsake a single stocking - nor a single lock of hair - at least in Southwell, Becher - whilst you are here!

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B flounces delightedly down the aisle towards London town, leaving Rev. B to cope with the tumultuous fulfilment of his vocation

 

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END

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