divers modes of relaxation. Greenwich--in the glory of its whitebait,
its undeniable Thames flounders, its dear little ducklings enshrined
in their asparagus nest, and its flagons, wherein the cider cup shows
sparklingly through the light blue _Borage_--was not unfrequented by
us in the course of the sultry afternoon. At Richmond, likewise, we
battened sybaritically; and more than once essayed to resuscitate our
appetite, and awake within us the dormant sense of poetry, by a stroll
along the breezy heath of Hampstead, preparatory to a dive into the
Saracen, where, doubtless, in the days of yore, Leigh Hunt, Keats, and
Hazlitt used to make wild work among the eggs and spinach. Our
attendance at the theatres, however, was a matter of rarity. We have
no fancy to undergo martyrdom by means of a slow stewing, when the
sole palm we can win, in exchange for the sudorific pangs, is the
enjoyment of some such shabby-genteel comedy as _The Beggar on
Horseback_, or a travestie like that of the _Birds_ of Aristophanes,
the only peculiarity of which is its utter want of meaning. As a
general rule, we prefer the spectacles on the Surrey side, to those
exhibited in the Metropolitan or Westminster districts. There, the
nautical drama still flourishes in its pristine force. The old British
tar, in ringlets, pumps, and oil-skin castor, still hitches up his
trousers with appropriate oath; revolves the unfailing bolus of
pigtail in his cheek--swims to shore across a tempestuous sea of
canvass, with a pistol in each hand and a cutlass in his teeth, from
the wreck of the foundering frigate--and sets foot once more on the
British soil, just in time to deliver Pretty Poll of Portsmouth, his
affianced bride, (who has a passion for short petticoats and crimson
stockings,) from the persecutions of that bebuttoned pirate with the
whiskers, who carries more pistols in his girdle than the scalps of an
Indian chief, and whose fall, after a terrific combat with
basket-hilts and shower of fiery sparkles, brings down the curtain at
the close of the third act amidst roars of unmitigated joy. Also we
delight to see, at never-failing Astley's, the revived glories of
British prowess--Wellington, in the midst of his staff, smiling
benignantly upon the facetious pleasantries of a Fitzroy
Somerset--Sergeant M'Craw of the Forty-Second, delighting the _élite_
of Brussels by his performance of the reel of Tullochgorum at the
Duchess of Richmond's ball--the charge of the Scots Greys--the single
combat between Marshal Ney and the infuriated Life-guardsman Shaw--and
the final retreat of Napoleon amidst a volley of Roman candles, and
the flames of an arseniated Hougomont. Nor is our gratification less
to discern, after the subsiding of the shower of saw-dust so
gracefully scattered by that groom in the doeskin integuments, the
stately form of Widdicomb, cased in martial apparel, advancing towards
the centre of the wing, and commanding--with imperious gestures, and
some slight flagellation in return for dubious compliment--the
double-jointed clown to assist the Signora Cavalcanti to her seat upon
the celebrated Arabian. How lovely looks the lady, as she vaults to
her feet upon the breadth of the yielding saddle! With what inimitable
grace does she whirl these tiny banners around her head, as winningly
as a Titania performing the sword exercise! How coyly does she dispose
her garments and floating drapery to hide the too maddening symmetry
of her limbs! Gods!--She is transformed all at once into an
Amazon--the fawn-like timidity of her first demeanour is gone. Bold
and beautiful flushes her cheek with animated crimson--her full
voluptuous lip is more compressed and firm--the deep passion of the
huntress sparkles in her lustrous eye! Widdicomb becomes excited--he
moves with quicker step around the periphery of his central
circle--incessant is the smacking of his whip--not this time directed
against Mr Merryman, who at his ease is enjoying a swim upon the
saw-dust--and lo! the grooms rush in, six bars are elevated in a
trice, and over them all bounds the volatile Signora like a panther,
nor pauses until, with airy somersets, she has passed twice through
the purgatory of the blazing hoop, and then, drooping and exhausted,
sinks like a Sabine into the arms of the herculean Master, who--a
second Romulus--bears away his lovely burden to the stables, amidst
such a whirlwind of applause as Kemble might have been proud to earn!
"So," in the language of Tennyson--
"So we triumph'd, ere our passion sweeping through us left us dry,
Left us with the palsied heart, and left us with the jaundiced eye."
"Dryness," however, according to our creed and practice, is not
altogether unappeasable, and by the help of Barclay, Perkins, and
Company, we succeeded in mitigating its rage. But we confess to the
other miseries of the palsied heart and jaundiced eye, so soon as we
were informed by the above-mentioned scribe, that our bill had been
thrown out upon committee, and that, if we tarried longer in London,
it must be upon our own proper charges. We had been so used for the
last twelve months to voyage, and to subsist at the expense of
joint-stock companies--so habituated to dine with provisional
committees, and to hold sweet supper consultations in the society of
salaried surveyors--that a reference to our private resources appeared
a matter of serious hardship. However, there was no help for it. Some
mean and unreasonable share-holders were already growling about a
return of some portion of the deposits, and even, to the infinite
disgust of the directors, hinted at a taxation of accounts. The
murmurs of these slaves of Mammon broke up our little Eden. The Irish
egg-merchant, who had been fed for three weeks upon turtle to induce
him to give testimony touching the importation of eerocks--the tollman
from Strathspey, who nightly meandered to the Coal-hole, in company
with the intoxicated distiller--the three clerks who did the dirty
work of the committee-room, and were therefore, with wise precaution,
stinted in their allowance of beer--the northern bailie, who stuck
strenuously to toddy, and the maritime provost, who affected the
vintage of the Rhine--the raw uncouth surveyor from Dingwall, who,
guiltless of straps, and rejoicing in a superfluity of rig-and-fur
over a pair of monstrous brogues, displayed his native symmetry every
afternoon in Regent Street, and reciprocated the gaze of the wondering
milliners with a coarse guffaw, and the exhibition of his enormous
teeth;--All these worthies vanished from the house in a single day,
like spirits at the crowing of the cock, and returned to their native
hills in a state of comparative demoralization. For our own part, we
packed our portmanteau in gloomy silence, and meditated a speedy
retreat to the distant solitudes of Loch Awe.
We were eating, as we thought, our last muffin, when our eye was
accidentally caught by an advertisement in the _Times_, purporting
that a new play was to be immediately produced at the Princess's
theatre, and that its title was _The King of the Commons_. A spasm of
delight shot through us. We were aware, some time before, that a dear
friend, and distinguished fellow-labourer of ours, whose contributions
have always been of sweetest savour in the nostrils of fastidious
Christopher, had turned his attention to dramatic poetry, and was
resolved, for once at least, to launch an experimental shallop upon
the stage. Nor did we doubt that this was the enunciation of his
attempt. We divined it at once from the subject, so akin to his genius
and deep national feelings--we knew the fervour of his love to
Scotland, and his earnest desire to illustrate some page of her varied
annals--and we resolved accordingly to postpone our departure, and be
present at the success or discomfiture of our bold and adventurous
brother.
The first night of a new play is always attended with some agreeable
excitement. If the author is a known man upon the boards--a veteran of
some six comedies, all of which have found their way into the
provinces, and are usually selected by the leading Star on the
occasion of his or her benefit--the general audiences are desirous to
ascertain whether his new effort is equal in point of merit to the
rest. The critics, most of whom have failed in their own proper
persons, are by no means indisposed to detect the occurrence of
blemishes--friends hope that it may succeed, and unsuccessful rivals
devoutly trust it may be damned. If the author is unknown, and if no
very flagrant efforts have been made to pre-puff his performance, he
has at all events the chance of an impartial hearing. Let the play go
on smoothly to the middle; let no very glaring absurdities appear; let
the actors really exert themselves, and display any thing like
interest or talent in their business, and young Sophocles is generally
sure of a favourable verdict. Our dear friends, the public, are always
well disposed towards a winning man. One cheer elicits another, and
applause, once commenced, goes on at a multiplied ratio. No doubt, the
case may be reversed, and the sound of a solitary catcall from the pit
awake the slumbering serpents, and become the signal for universal
sibilation.
The danger is, that an unknown author, unpuffed, may be ruined for
want of an audience. We have no great faith in the panacea of free
tickets, issued by the lessee for the simple purpose of getting up a
house. The worth of a production is usually estimated by its current
value, and we doubt if a favourable bias can be produced in the minds
of any, by means of gratuitous pasteboard. Puffing, again, often
defeats its own object. It creates doubt in the anticipations of some,
jealousy in those of others and is also apt to create a _prestige_
which the result may not justify. When we are told, on the authority
of newspaper paragraphs, that _Bianca Franconi, or the Seven Bloody
Poignards of Parma_, is to take the town by storm,--that nothing equal
to it in merit has been produced since the days of Shakspeare,--that
the critic who had the privilege of attending the first rehearsal,
emerged from the theatre with his blood in a state of congelation,
owing to the sepulchral tones and vehement gestures of Mr Charles
Kean, who represents the part of Giacomo degli Assassinazioni, the
Demon Host of the Abruzzi;--when we listen to this preliminary
flourish of trumpets, we are apt to screw our imaginations a peg too
high, and may chance to derive less rapture than we had anticipated
from the many scenes of murder which garnish the _dénouement_ of the
drama.
A greater virtue than fidelity is not in the celestial catalogue. We
should at all times be ready to accompany a friend, either in a
triumphal ovation or in a melancholy march to the scaffold,--to place
the laurel on his head, or the funereal handkerchief in his hand. It
was an exuberance of this feeling which determined us to be present at
the first representation of _The King of the Commons_; and being
firmly convinced of the truth of the adage, that there is safety in a
multitude of councillors, we sent round the fiery cross to such of our
fellow-contributors as were then in London, requesting them to favour
us with their company to an early dinner at the Parthenon, as a proper
preliminary to the more serious business of the evening.
Some half-dozen of the younger hands responded punctually to our call.
They came dropping in in high glee, with a rather mischievous
expression of countenance, as though they anticipated fun; nor had
they been five minutes in the room, before we discovered, to our
unspeakable consternation, that every man was furnished, either with a
catcall or a railway whistle! Here was a proper business! We knew very
well that the articles which our dramatic friend contributes to Maga,
have found more favour in the eyes of the public than the lucubrations
of all the rest of us put together, and yet we had been foolish enough
to assume, that, after the manner of the brethren, we had been
convoking a literary Lodge. In fact, we had made no allowance for that
indescribable delight which prompts you irresistibly, and without
thought of succour, to cram your horse at the ditch into which, six
seconds before, the friend of your bosom has been pitched from the
back of his runaway mare, and wherein he is now lying with his head
fixed inextricably in the mud, and his legs demonstrating in the air a
series of spasmodic mathematical propositions. Not that, in the
slightest degree, the dispositions of the lads were evil. If the play
turned out well, we knew that they would be found cheering with the
most uproarious, and probably raving for the next week about the
merits of their fortunate compeer;--but if, on the contrary, it should
happen that our brother had overestimated his powers, little doubt
existed in our mind, that each contributor would exert himself on his
peculiar instrument as vigorously as Herr Koenig, on the
cornet-à-piston, nor seek to excuse himself afterwards on any more
elaborate plea, than the right of every Briton to participate in a
popular amusement.
The dinner went off well. We were, however, cautious to confine each
man to his solitary pint, lest their spirits should prove too
exuberant at the moment of the rising of the curtain. Coffee over, we
wended our way to the theatre, where we arrived just in time to hear
the expiring crash of the overture. The first glimpse of the
well-filled house assured us that there was no fear of the play
falling still-born for want of an adequate audience. Boxes, pit, and
gallery were equally crammed. We took our seat in the midst of the
band of catcallers and whistlemen, and proceeded to the inspection of
the bill as diligently as though it were an exponent of the piece. It
must be confessed that our friend has not been very fortunate in the
selection of his names. Early associations with the neighbourhood of
Mid-Calder, a region abounding in cacophonous localities, seem to have
led him a little astray. Adam Weir, Portioner in Laichmont, is a name
which may be found figuring in the _Cloud of Witnesses_, or in that
very silly book, Mr Simpson's _Traditions of the Covenanters_. It
might sound admirably in a tale of the "hill-folk," but we totally
repudiate and deny the propriety of enrolling Sir Adam Weir of
Laichmont in the list of King James's Bannerets. Buckie of Drumshorlan
likewise, though he may turn out on further acquaintance to be a
fellow of infinite fancy, appears to us in print the _eidolon_ of a
Bathgate carter. Madeleine we acknowledge to be a pretty name, but it
loses its effect in conjunction with a curt patronymic. However, these
are minor matters. It may be allowable to us, who drew our first trout
from the Linnhouse Water, to notice them, but English ears may not be
so fastidious. Tomkins, to the Chinese, is probably a name as terrible
in sound as Wellington.
But see!--the curtain rises, and displays an interior in Holyrood.
James White--you are a lucky fellow! That mechanist is worth his
weight in gold; for, what with stained windows and draperies and
pilasters, he has contrived to transform our old gloomy palace, where
solemnity sits guardian at the portal, into as gay a habitation as
ever was decked out for a southern potentate. Francesco and
Bernardo--that is, Buckie and Mungo Small--have some preliminary talk,
for which we care not; when suddenly the folding-doors fly open, and
enter James the Fifth of Scotland, surrounded by his nobles.
Unquestionably the greatest of living British actors, Macready, has
never wanted honours. This night he has them to the full, if deafening
applause can testify the public goodwill; and of a truth he deserves
them all, and more, were it but for that king-like bearing. There is
no mock majesty in his aspect. Admirably has he appreciated the
chivalrous character of James, who in many points seems to have borne
a strong resemblance to the English Richard--as gallant and fearless,
as hasty and bountiful--more trusting perhaps, but yet not more
deceived. There is now a cloud on the royal brow. Some of the nobles
have delayed, upon various pretexts, to send their vassals to the
general muster on the Borough Muir, preparatory to an inroad upon
England, and James cannot urge them on. Somerville and some others,
who have no mind for the war, are pleading their excuse, greatly to
the indignation of the King, who considers the honour of Scotland more
bound up with the enterprise than his own.
"I was the proudest king--too proud perhaps--
I thought I was but foremost in a band
Of men, of brothers, of true-hearted Scots;
But pshaw!--it shall not move me."
He thus reproaches his nobles, who would fain instigate him to peace,
but who on this occasion, as on many others, were opposed to the
opinions, not only of the clergy, but of the people.
"What! to hear
His threats, and worse than threats--his patronage?
As if we stoop'd our sovran crown, or held it
As vassal from the greatest king alive!
No; we are poor--I know we are poor, my lords;
Our realm is but a niggard in its soil,
And the fat fields of England wave their crops
In richer dalliance with the autumn winds
Than our bleak plains;--but from our rugged dells
Springs a far richer harvest--gallant hearts,
Stout hands, and courage that would think foul scorn
To quail before the face of mortal man.
We are our people's king. For you, my lords,
Leave me to face the enemy alone!
I care not for your silken company.
I'll to my stalwart men--I'll name my name,
And bid them follow James. They'll follow me--
Fear not--they'll follow!"
After some more such dialogue, the nobles promise obedience and
retire, leaving James convinced of their lukewarmness, though
unsuspicious of their treason, and more determined than ever to trust
implicitly to the devotion of the people.
"Will they be traitors still? and play the game
Was play'd at Lauder Bridge? and leave their king
Unshielded to the scorn and laugh of England?
I will not think so meanly of them yet!
_They are not forward, as their fathers were
Who died at Flodden, as the brave should die,
With sword in hand, defiance in their hearts,
And a whole land to weep and honour them._
If they desert me--well, I can but die,
And better die than live a powerless king!"
Some good passages had occurred before, but this was the first
palpable hit in the play. The word Flodden came home like a
cannon-shot to the heart of every Scotsman in the house, and a yell
arose from the pit, as though the general body of bordering surveyors
who packed it, were ready for another insurrection.
Buckie of Drumshorlan, who, it seems, is a notorious reiver, or, as he
phrases it--"an outcast--a poor Scottish Ishmaelite,"--a fact,
however, unknown to the king, whom he had rescued from the waters
while attempting to cross the Avon in a spate--now comes forward, and
gives information against Sir Adam Weir of Laichmont, as an agent of
the English court, and a corrupter of the treacherous nobility. James
determines to expiscate the matter in person; and accordingly, in the
next scene, we are transported to a wood near Laichmont, where
Madeleine Weir, the grandchild of the knight, and Malcolm Young, her
cousin, are apparently bird-nesting, but in reality, though they know
it not, making love. For poor Malcolm is an orphan, dependent entirely
on Sir Adam, who will not let him become a soldier, but has condemned
him to holy orders. It is, in short, the story--nearly as old as the
world--of disappointed hope and love; though Madeleine, with a sweet
innocence which we suspect is rarely to be found save on the stage,
seems unconscious of the true state of her feelings with reference to
her early playmate. Their _tête-à-tête_ is interrupted by the entrance
of King James, of course in disguise, and now beset by sundry ruffians
who have left their mark on the royal costard; and Malcolm, like a
tight St Andrews student, springs to the rescue. This effects the
introduction of the King to the house of Laichmont, where we find Sir
Adam--a hoary, calculating traitor--in great anxiety to find a
messenger to communicate an English dispatch to the disaffected lords
of Scotland. We pass over his colloquy with his neighbour, Laird
Small--an elderly idiot, whose son Mungo holds the post of usher at
Holyrood, and who now agrees with Sir Adam to unite the two estates by
a marriage between the said Mungo and Madeleine. This scene, which is
pure dramatic business, is pleasantly enough conducted, although in
point of probability, and considering the ambition of the knight, he
might have looked for a better match for his daughter than a coxcomb
of an usher, heir though he was of some plashy acres in the
rush-covered confines of Mid-Calder. We have observed, however, that
love of district is as deep a passion in the human mind as love of
country; and the intense yearning of the Switzer for his clear
Lucerne, may not transcend the tide of parochial patriotism which
swells the bosom of the native of the Kirk of Shotts.
In the second act, Sir Adam somewhat incautiously selects James
himself as the messenger to the nobles; and here we cannot altogether
acquit our friend from the charge of great improbability. That blemish
excepted, the scene is a good one, especially in the part where James,
with the true vanity of a poet, becomes ruffled at the account of the
common criticism on his verses. In the next scene, James extracts the
secret of his love from Malcolm--a character which, by the way, was
admirably performed by Mr Leigh Murray--and the whole mystery of the
sadness of her cousin is revealed to the agitated Madeleine. We have
an idea that dramatic love-scenes must be very ticklish in
composition; at least of this we are aware, that in real life they are
peculiarly perplexing. We never felt so like a booby as when we first
attempted a proposal; and, to our shame be it said, we experienced far
less pain from the positive refusal of Jemima, than from the
consciousness that, at that moment, we must have appeared
inexpressibly absurd. And so it is, we apprehend, with the great
majority of lovers. They keep beating about the bush for months, and
never seem absolutely to know what they would be at. The great
majority of marriages are the result of accident. We have known
several proposals follow the overturning of a chaise. A sharp race
from the pursuit of an infuriated bull--the collision of a
steam-boat--even a good rattling thunder-storm, will bring to a proper
understanding parties who, under ordinary circumstances, and with no
such pretty casualties, might have dawdled out years of unprofitable
courtship, and finally separated for ever in consequence of some
imaginary coldness, for which neither one nor the other of them could
have assigned a plausible reason. Now, within the limits of a five-act
play, there is no space for dawdling. The flirtation must always be of
the warmest, and the engagement consequent thereon. A friend to whom
your hero can tell his story, is of immense advantage in the drama,
more especially when the young gentleman, as in this case, is under
difficulties, and the young lady playfully concealed behind a
whinbush, for no other purpose than that of learning the cause of his
secret sorrow. Let us see how our friend manages this.
"JAMES.--You know not--but--enough! Poor Malcolm Young!
Tell me what weighs so heavy on your heart.
MADELEINE. (_behind._)--Now I shall hear what makes poor Malcolm sad.
MALCOLM.--Sir,'tis but three weeks since that I came home--
Home! no, I dare not call it home,--came here,--
After long tarrying at St Andrew's schools,
By order of my kinsman, at the last,
A month since,--'tis one little month ago----
JAMES.--Go on, go on!
MADELEINE.--Now comes the hidden grief.
MALCOLM.--He forced me by deceitful messages
To vow me to the priesthood, when my soul
Long'd more for neighing steeds than psalteries.
Oh, what a happy fortune had been mine
To draw the sword 'neath gallant James's eye,
And rouge it to the hilt in English blood!
JAMES.--God bless you, boy!--your hand again--your hand!
Would you have served the king?
MALCOLM.--Ay! died for him!
JAMES.--And he'd have cherish'd you, believe me, boy,
And held you to his heart, and trusted you--
And you'd ha' been true brothers;--for a love
Like yours is what poor James has need of most.
Is this your grief?
MALCOLM.--Alas, my grief lies deeper!
I might have bent me to my cruel fate
With prayers that our brave king find Scots as true,
And worthier of his praise than Malcolm Young.
When I came back, I had not been a day
'Mid well-known scenes in the remember'd rooms,
Till to my heart, my soul, the dreadful truth
Was open'd like a gulf; and I--fool! fool!
To be so dull, so blind--I knew too late
That I was wretched--miserable--doom'd,
Like Tantalus, to more than hellish pains--
To feel--yet not to dare to speak, or think;
To love--and be a priest!
MADELEINE.--To love! to love!
How strange this is!
JAMES.--How found you this, poor friend?