Her whisper'd name; thoughts buried long ago
'Neath childish memories--we were children both--
Rose up like armed phantoms from their grave,
Waving me from them with their mailèd hands!
I saw her with the light of womanhood
Spread o'er the childish charms I loved so well--
I heard her voice sweet with the trustful tones
She spoke with long ago, yet richer grown
With the full burden of her ripen'd thoughts.
MADELEINE.--My head goes round--my heart will burst!
MALCOLM.--I saw
A world lie open--and an envious spell
Fencing it from me; day by day, I felt
Grief and the blackness of unsunn'd despair
Closing all round me.
JAMES.--And the maiden's name?
MALCOLM.--Was Madeleine Weir."
Obedient to dramatic rule, Madeleine faints away at the discovery; and
the good-natured king, without however discovering himself, determines
to secure the happiness of the youthful couple.
This brings us to the third act, where the accusing Buckie again makes
his appearance, and denounces Sir Adam Weir, not only as a traitor,
but as a plunderer of his own kin. He avers the existence of a nephew,
who, were a multiplepoinding instituted, would be found to have good
right to a considerable slice of Laichmont, not to mention divers
other dividends; and he pledges himself to compear at Holyrood on an
early day, at the peril of his head, to prove the truth of his
allegations. With reference to the correspondence with the nobility,
James speaks thus:--
"Your words are strong
As if they sprang from truth. I came to prove
Sir Adam Weir; through him to reach the hearts
Of higher men. _The saddest heart alive
Would be as careless as a lark's in June
Compared to mine, if what my fear portends
Proves true._ Sir Adam Weir has wealth in store--
Is crafty, politic, and is of weight--
The words are his--with certain of our lords.
BUCKIE.--I told you so. I know he has deep dealings
With----
JAMES.--Name them not; from their own lips I'll hear
Their guilt; no other tongue shall blot the fame
Of James's nobles. If it should be so;
If the two men I've trusted from my youth--
If Hume--If Seton--let the rest go hang!
But Seton, my old playmate!--if he's false,
Then break, weak heart! farewell, my life and crown!----
I pray you meet me here within an hour
This very night; I shall have need of you.
And as you speak as one brave man should speak
To another man, albeit he is a king,
I will put trust in you; and, ere the morn,
You shall impeach Sir Adam in our court:
And woe betide the guilty! Say no more;
I meet you here again."
Sir Adam Weir delivers the important packet to the king to be conveyed
to the traitors, and James immediately hands it over to Buckie, with a
strict charge that it shall be produced that evening in the court at
Holyrood. His majesty having no further business at Laichmont, departs
in hot haste for Edinburgh.
It is now full time for old Sir Adam to exercise his parental
authority over Madeleine in the matter of her nuptials with Mungo
Small, who has at last arrived at Laichmont. The aged reprobate having
already sold his king and country, cannot be expected to have any
remorse about trafficking with his own flesh and blood; and
accordingly he shows himself, in this interview, quite as great a
brute as the elder Capulet. Nay, to our apprehension, he is
considerably worse; for he not only threatens the meek-eyed Madeleine
with starvation, but extends his threats of vengeance to the
unoffending Malcolm in case of her refusal to wed with the gentle
County Mungo. Madeleine is no Juliet, but a good Scots lassie--brought
up, we hope, in proper knowledge of her breviary, if not of her
catechism, and quite incapable of applying to the Friar Laurence of
Mid-Calder for an ounce of deceptive morphia. She has a hankering for
St Ninian's and the holy vocation of a nun.
"MADELEINE--I'll hie me to the monastery door,
And ask the meek-eyed nuns to take me in;
And it shall be my grave; and the thick walls
Shall keep me from the world; and in my heart
I'll cherish him, and think on all his looks,
Since we were children--all his gentle tones;
And when my weary breast shall heave no more,
I'll lay me down and die, and name his name
With my last breath. I would we both were dead
For we shall then be happy; but on earth
No happiness for me--no hope, no hope!"
But Madeleine is not yet to get off quite so easily. Young Master
Small is introduced to ensnare her with his manifold accomplishments,
and certainly he does exhibit himself as a nincompoop of the first
water. With all respect and affection for our brother, we hold this
character to be a failure. There is, we maintain, a vast difference
between vanity, however preposterous, and sheer undaunted drivel,
which latter article constitutes the staple of Master Mungo's
conversation. Not but what a driveller may be a fair character for a
play, but then he ought to drivel with some kind of consistency and
likelihood. Far are we from denying that there are many fools to be
found in Scotland; we even consider it a kind of patriotism to claim
our just quota of national idiocy. Our main objection to Mungo is,
that he represents, so far as we have seen, no section of the Scottish
Bauldy. If he resembles any thing, it is a Cockney of the Tittlebat
Titmouse breed, or one of those absurd blockheads in the plays of Mr
Sheridan Knowles who do the comic business, wear cock's feathers in
their hats, and are perpetually inquiring after news. There is a dash
of solemnity, a ludicrous assumption of priggism, about the Scottish
fool which Mr White has entirely evaded. Ass though he be, the
northern dunderhead is neither a man-milliner nor a flunky; and yet
Mungo Small is an arrant compound of the two. We put it to the public
if the following scene is facetious:--
"MUNGO.--She curtseys with an air; though, for my part,
I like the Spanish swale, as thus, (_curtseys,_) low, low;
Not the French dip, as thus, (_curtseys,_) dip, dip.
Which think you best?
MADELEINE.--Sir! did you speak to me?
MUNGO.--Did I? 'pon honour--yes, I think I did:
Some like the Austrian bend, (_curtseys,_) d'ye like it so?
Our girls, the Hamiltons, have got it pat;
No sooner do I say, 'Sweet Lady Jane,'
And draw my feather so, and place my hand
Here on my heart, 'Fair Lady Jane, how are ye?'
But up she goes, and bend, (_curtseys;_) but if an ass,
Some fribble she don't like, comes near her, lo!
A swale! (_curtseys,_) 'tis very like this gentlewoman.
I hope there's no one near you you don't like?
For if there is, 'fore gad! an 'twere my father,
I'd cut him into slices like cold ham,
As thin as that.
LAIRD.--Gadso! pray gad it ain't;
I hope it ain't his father--he would do it!
He's such a youth!"
Fancy such a capon as this holding office at the court of James the
Fifth!
The mock account of the tournament which follows, would be pleasant
reading were it not for the total incongruity of the narrator with the
scene which he describes. The actor who performed this part was
evidently quite at home in the representation of the smallest Cockney
characters. He brought out Mungo as the most pitiful little reptile
that ever waddled across the stage, and in consequence the audience,
for the first and only time, exhibited some symptoms of
disapprobation. What had gone before was really so good--the
performers had so ably seconded the efforts of the author--the
interest excited by the general business of the play was so
great--that this declension, which might otherwise have been
overlooked, was felt to be a positive grievance. Our chosen band of
contributors had hitherto behaved with great decorum. They had cheered
lustily at the proper places, pocketed their whistles, and although
the house was remarkably warm, not a man of them had emerged between
the acts for the sake of customary refreshment. All at once, in the
middle of the tournament scene, the shrill sharp squeak of a catcall
greeted on our ear, and turning rapidly round, we detected a Political
Economist in the act of commencing a concerto. It was all we could do
to wring the instrument from the villain's hand. We threatened to make
a report of his contumacious conduct to head-quarters, and menaced him
with the wrath of Christopher; but his sole reply to our remonstrance
was something like a grumbled defiance; and very glad were we when the
offending Mungo disappeared, and a pretty scene between Madeleine and
Malcolm, made the audience forget the ill-omened pleasantries of the
Cockney.
The fourth act is remarkably good. Of all the Scottish nobles, Lord
Seton and Hume have ever been the dearest to James; his belief in
their enduring faith and constancy has enabled him to bear up against
the coldness and disaffection of the others; but the time has now
arrived when his confidence in the honour of at least one of them is
destined to be shaken. One of the bishops--Mr White does not specify
his diocese--accuses Lord Seton of holding correspondence with the
leader of the English host. The charge is not believed--nay, hardly
entertained--until Seton himself being sent for, to some extent admits
the fact of having received a messenger.
"BISHOP.--And he sent a message back to Dacre,
And gave the envoy passage and safe conduct.
JAMES.--Is all this true?--Oh, Seton, say the word,
One little word--tell me it is not true!
SETON.--My liege,'tis true.
JAMES.--Then by the name we bear
You die!--a traitor's death! Sirrah! the guard.
I will not look again on where he stands.
Let him be taken hence--and let the axe
Rid me of----Seton! is it so in truth,
That you've deceived me--join'd my enemies?
You--you--my friend--my playmate!--is it so?
Sir, will you tell me wherein I have fail'd
In friendship to the man who was my friend?
I thought I loved you--that in all my heart
Dwelt not a thought that wrong'd you.
SETON.--You have heard
What my accuser says, and you condemn me--
I say no word to save a forfeit life--
A life is not worth having, when't has lost
All that gave value to it--my sovereign's trust!
JAMES (_to the_ BISHOP.)--You see this man, sir--he's the selfsame age
That I am. We were children both together--
We grew--we read in the same book--my lord,
You must remember that?--how we were never
Separate from each other; well, this man
Lived with me, year by year; he counsell'd me'
Cheer'd me, sustained me--he was as myself--
_The very throne, that is to other kings
A desolate island rising in the sea--
A pinnacle of power, in solitude,
Grew to a seat of pleasance in his trust._
The sea that chafed all round it with its waves
This man bridged over with his love, and made it
A highway for our subjects' happiness--
And now! for a few pieces of red gold
He leaves me. Oh, he might have coin'd my life
Into base ingots--stript me of it all--
If he had left me faith in one true heart,
And I should ne'er have grudged him the exchange.
Go, now. We speak your doom--you die the death!
God pardon you! I dare not pardon you--
Farewell.
SETON.--I ask no pardon, sir, from you.
May you find pardon--ay, in your own heart
For what you do this day!
BISHOP.--Be firm, my liege.
JAMES.--Away, away, old man!--You do not know--
You cannot know, what this thing costs me."
After all, it turns out that Seton is perfectly innocent--that the
message he has dispatched to English Lord Dacre is one of scorn and
defiance--and that the old Cacofogo of the church, who might have
belonged to The Club, has been rather too hasty in his inferences.
Macready--great throughout the whole scene--outshone himself in the
reconciliation which follows; and we believe our friend the Political
Economist was alone in his minority when he muttered, with
characteristic adherence to matter of fact--"Why the plague didn't
that fellow Seton clear himself at once, and save us the whole of the
bother?" We return for a moment to Laichmont, where there is a regular
flare-up between old Sir Adam and Malcolm, the latter pitching it into
the senior in superior style. An officer from the court arrives, and
the whole family party are ordered off _instanter_ to Holyrood.
The last act shows us King James vigilant, and yet calm, in the midst
of the corrupted barons. It is some weeks since the latter have seen a
glimpse of an English rouleau, and their fingers are now itching
extremely for an instalment. They are dismissed for the moment, and
the king begins to perform his royal functions and redeem his
promises, by procuring from the Cardinal-Legate letters of dismission
from the church in favour of Malcolm Young. The court is then
convoked, and Buckie--public prosecutor throughout--appears with a
pair of wolf's jaws upon his head, which we hold to be a singular and
somewhat inconvenient substitute for a wig. The indictment is twofold.
The first charge is against Sir Adam for falsehood, fraud, and wilful
imposition; in consequence of which, his nephew, described as a lad of
considerable early promise, has been compelled to betake himself to
the king's highway, in the reputable capacity of a cutpurse. This
missing youth turns out to be identical with the cateran of
Drumshorlan. The second charge is more serious. It relates to the
public treachery of Weir; in proof of which, Buckie produces the
packet containing the dispatches to the Lords. All is confusion and
dismay.
"SOMERVILLE.--'Tis some foolishness,
I'll take the charge.
JAMES.--Bring me the packet, lord!
Here, Maxwell! break the seal--but your hand shakes.
Hume! lay it open. (HUME _opens the packet_.) Blessings on you, Hume!
Oh, what a thing is truth! Here, give it me!
Now, by my soul, this is a happy time!
I hold a score of heads within my hands--
Heads--noble heads--right honourable heads--
Stand where you are! ay, coroneted heads--
Nay, whisper not! What think you that I am?
A dolt--a madman? As I live by bread,
I'll show you what I am! You thought me blind,
You called me heedless James, and hoodwink'd James--
You'll find me watchful James, and vengeful James!
(HUME _marches in the Guard, with Headsman;
They stand beside the Lords, who form a group_.)
One little word, and it will conjure up
The fiend to tear you. One motion of this hand--
One turning of the leaf--Who stirs a foot
Is a dead man! _If I but turn the leaf,
Shame sits like a foul vulture on a corse,
And flaps its wings on the dishonor'd names
Of knights and nobles._
(_A pause; the_ LORDS _look at each other_.)
Nay, blench not, good my lords;
I mean not _you_; the idle words I say
Can have no sting for you! You are true men--
True to your king! You'll show your truth, my lords,
In battle; pah! we'll teach those Englishmen
We are not the base things they take us for;
They'll see James and his nobles side by side--
(_Aside._) If they desert me now, then farewell all!
(_Aloud._) There!--(_gives the packet back to Somerville_)
I know nothing!"
After this act of magnanimity, our readers will readily believe that
all the other personages in the drama are properly disposed of--that
pardon and reconciliation is the order of the day--and that the lovers
are duly united. So ends one of the most successful dramas which has
been produced for a long time upon the stage. Our own judgment might
possibly have been swayed by partiality--not so that of the thousands
who have since witnessed its repeated and successful representation.
Were we to venture upon any broad criticism, after a careful perusal
of this play, and of _The Earl of Gowrie_, we should be inclined to
say that Mr White sins rather upon the side of reserve, than that of
abandonment. We think he might well afford to give a freer rein to his
genius--to scatter before us more of the flowers of poesy--to elevate
the tone of his language and the breadth of his imagery, more
especially in the principal scenes. It may be--and we almost believe
it--that he entertains a theory contrary to ours--that his effort
throughout has been to avoid all exaggeration, and to imitate, as
nearly as the vehicle of verse will allow, not only the transactions,
but the dialogue of actual life. But, is this theory, after all,
substantially correct? A play, according to our ideas, is not intended
to be a mere daguerreotype of what has passed or is passing around us;
it is also essentially a poem, and never can be damaged by any of the
arts which the greatest masters in all times have used for the
composition of their poetry. Much must be said in a play, which in
real life would find no utterance; for passion, in most of its phases,
does not usually speak aloud; and therefore it is that we not only
forgive, but actually require some exaggeration on the stage, in order
to bring out more clearly the thoughts which in truth would have
remained unspoken. In the matter of ornament, much must be left to the
discretion and the skill of the author. We are as averse as any man
can be to overflowing diction--to a smothering of thoughts in
verbiage--to images which distract the mind by their over-importance
to the subject. But the dramatic author, if he carefully considers the
past annals of his craft, can hardly fail to remark that no play has
ever yet achieved a permanent reputation, unless, in addition to
general equable excellence, it contains some scenes or passages of
more than common beauty and power, into the composition of which the
highest species of poetry enters--where the imagination is allowed its
unchecked flight, and the fancy its utmost range. Thus it was, at all
events, that Shakespeare wrote; and if our theory should be by any
deemed erroneous, we are contented to take shelter under his mighty
name, and appeal to his practice, artless as it may have been--as the
highest authority of the world.
But, after all, we are content to take the play as we find it. Of _The
Earl of Gowrie_, Mr White's earlier production, we have left ourselves
in this article little room to speak. In some points it is of a higher
and more ambitious caste than the other--written with more apparent
freedom; and some of the characters--Logan of Restalrig for
example--are powerfully conceived. It is not, however, so well adapted
for the stage as the other drama. James the Sixth, according to our
author's portraiture, is a far less personable individual than his
grandsire; and the quaint mixture of Scots and Latin with which his
speeches are decorated, would sound strangely and uncouthly in modern
ears, even could a competent actor be found. We would much rather see
this play performed by an amateur section of the Parliament House,
than brought out on the boards of Drury Lane. If the Lords Ordinary
stood upon their dignity and refused participation in the jinks, we
think we could still cull from the ranks of the senior bar, a fitting
representative for the gentle King Jamie. We have Logans and Gowries
in abundance, and should the representation ever take place, we shall
count upon the attendance of Mr White, who shall have free permission
for that evening to use the catcall to his heart's content.
Not less pleased are we with the delightful book of Highland
Minstrelsy from the pen of Mrs David Ogilvy, and so characteristically
illustrated by our friend R. R. M'Ian, which now claims our attention.
We are glad to find, in one young writer at least, a return to a
better and a simpler style than that which has been lately
prevalent--a strong national feeling not warped or perverted by
prejudice, and a true veneration for all that is great and glorious in
the past. These poems are, as the authoress informs us in her preface,
intended to bear upon "the traditions, the sentiments, and the customs
of a romantic people"--they are rather sketches of the Highlanders,
than illustrations drawn from history--they are well conceived, and
clearly and delicately executed.
Indeed, notwithstanding the mighty harvest which Sir Walter Scott has
reaped, there is a wide field still open to those who comprehend the
national character. It is, however, one into which no stranger may
hope to enter with the slightest prospect of success. A more
lamentable failure than that committed by Mr Serjeant Talfourd in his
attempt to found a tragedy upon the woful massacre of Glencoe--a
grosser jumble of nonsense about ancestry and chieftainship--was, we
verily believe, never yet perpetrated. At the distance of six years,
we can vividly remember the tingling of our fingers for the pen when
we first detected the Serjeant upon his northern poaching expedition;
nor assuredly should he have escaped without exposure, had not the
memory of _Ion_ been still fresh, and many graceful services to
literature pled strongly within us in his behalf. But our authoress,
if not born, has been bred in the heart of the mountains--she knows,
we are sure, every rood of great Strath-Tay from Balloch to the
roaring Tummel--she has seen the deep pass of Killiecrankie alike in
sunshine and storm, and sweet must have been the walks of her
childhood in the silent woods of Tullymet. It is among such scenes as
these--in the midst of a brave, honest and an affectionate
people--that she has received her earliest poetical impulse, and
gratefully has she repaid that inspiration with the present tribute of
her muse.
We hardly know to which of her ballads we should give precedence. Our
favourite--it may be from association, or from the working of Jacobite
sympathies of which we never shall be ashamed--is the first in order,
and accordingly we give it without comment:--
"THE EXILE AT CULLODEN.
"There was tempest on the waters, there was darkness on the earth,
When a single Danish schooner struggled up the Moray Firth.
Looming large, the Ross-shire mountains frown'd unfriendly on its track,
Shriek'd the wind along their gorges, like a sufferer on the rack;
And the utmost deeps were shaken by the stunning thunder-peal;--
'Twas a sturdy hand, I trow ye, that was needed at the wheel.
"Though the billows flew about them, till the mast was hid in spray,
Though the timbers strain'd beneath them, still they bore upon their way,
Till they reach'd a fisher-village where the vessel they could moor--
Every head was on its pillow when they landed on the shore;
And a man of noble presence bade the crew "Wait here for me.
I will come back in the morning, when the sun has left the sea."
"He was yet in manly vigour, though his lips were ashen white,
On his brow were early furrows, in his eyes a clouded light;
Firm his step withal and hasty, through the blinding mist so sure,
That he found himself by dawning on a wide and lonesome muir,
Mark'd by dykes and undulations, barren both of house and wood,
And he knew the purple ridges--'twas Culloden where he stood.
"He had known it well aforetime--not, as now, so drear and quiet;
When astir with battle's horror,--reeling with destruction's riot;
Now so peacefully unconscious that the orphan'd and exiled
Was unmann'd to see its calmness, weeping weakly as a child;
And a thought arose of madness, and his hand was on his sword--
But he crush'd the coward impulse, and he spake the bitter word;--
"'I am here, O sons of Scotland--ye who perish'd for your king!
In the misty wreaths before me I can see your tartans swing--
I can hear your slogan, comrades, who to Saxon never knelt;
Oh! that I had died among ye, with the fortunes of the Celt!
"'There he rode, our princely warrior, and his features wore the same
Pallid cast of deep foreboding as the First one of his name;
Ay, as gloomy as his sunset, though no Scot his life betray'd;
Better plunge in bloody glory, than go down in shame and shade.
"'Stormy hills, did ye protect him, that o'erlook Culloden's plain,
Dabbled with the heather blossoms red as life-drops of the slain?
Did ye hide your hunted children from the vengeance of the foe?
Did ye rally back the flying for one last despairing blow?
No! the kingdom is the Saxon's, and the humbled clans obey,
And our bones must rot in exile who disdain usurper's sway.
"'He is sunk in wine's oblivion for whom Highland blood was shed,
Whom the wretched cateran shelter'd, with a price upon his head,
Beaten down like hounds by scourging, crouching from their master's
sight;
And I tread my native mountains, as a robber, in the night;
Spite of tempest, spite of danger, hostile man and hostile sea,
Gory field of sad Culloden, I have come to gaze on thee!'