Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 60, No. 369, July 1846

"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 Kœnig, 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 bandOf 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 hearHis threats, and worse than threats – his patronage?As if we stoop'd our sovran crown, or held itAs 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 cropsIn richer dalliance with the autumn windsThan our bleak plains; – but from our rugged dellsSprings a far richer harvest – gallant hearts,Stout hands, and courage that would think foul scornTo 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 gameWas play'd at Lauder Bridge? and leave their kingUnshielded to the scorn and laugh of England?I will not think so meanly of them yet!They are not forward, as their fathers wereWho 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 messagesTo vow me to the priesthood, when my soulLong'd more for neighing steeds than psalteries.Oh, what a happy fortune had been mineTo 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 loveLike 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 fateWith 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 truthWas open'd like a gulf; and I – fool! fool!To be so dull, so blind – I knew too lateThat 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?Malcolm. – By throbbings at the heart, when I but heardHer 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 womanhoodSpread o'er the childish charms I loved so well —I heard her voice sweet with the trustful tonesShe spoke with long ago, yet richer grownWith the full burden of her ripen'd thoughts.Madeleine. – My head goes round – my heart will burst!Malcolm. – I sawA world lie open – and an envious spellFencing it from me; day by day, I feltGrief and the blackness of unsunn'd despairClosing 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 strongAs if they sprang from truth. I came to proveSir Adam Weir; through him to reach the heartsOf higher men. The saddest heart aliveWould be as careless as a lark's in JuneCompared to mine, if what my fear portendsProves 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 dealingsWith —James. – Name them not; from their own lips I'll hearTheir guilt; no other tongue shall blot the fameOf 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 hourThis very night; I shall have need of you.And as you speak as one brave man should speakTo 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 wallsShall keep me from the world; and in my heartI'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 nameWith my last breath. I would we both were deadFor we shall then be happy; but on earthNo 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: —