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Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 60, No. 369, July 1846
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 bearYou 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 axeRid 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'dIn friendship to the man who was my friend?I thought I loved you – that in all my heartDwelt not a thought that wrong'd you.Seton. – You have heardWhat 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 lostAll that gave value to it – my sovereign's trust!James (to the Bishop.) – You see this man, sir – he's the selfsame ageThat I am. We were children both together —We grew – we read in the same book – my lord,You must remember that? – how we were neverSeparate from each other; well, this manLived 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 kingsA 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 wavesThis man bridged over with his love, and made itA highway for our subjects' happiness —And now! for a few pieces of red goldHe leaves me. Oh, he might have coin'd my lifeInto 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 heartFor 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 upThe fiend to tear you. One motion of this hand —One turning of the leaf – Who stirs a footIs 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 namesOf 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 sayCan 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 EnglishmenWe 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 exiledWas 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 samePallid 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!'"So he pluck'd a tuft of heather that was blooming at his foot,That was nourish'd by dead kinsmen, and their bones were at its root;With a sigh he took the blossom, and he strode unto the strand,Where his Danish crew awaited with a motley fisher band;Brief the parley, swift his sailing, with the tide, and ne'er againSaw the Moray Firth the stranger or the schooner of the Dane.""Eilan Mohr" and the "Vow of Ian Lom," the renowned Seannachie of the Highlands, are both fine poems, but rather too long for extract; and as we do not doubt that this volume will erelong be found in the boudoir and drawing-room of many of our fair countrywomen, we have less hesitation in leaving them to a more leisurely perusal.
The young authoress will, we trust, forgive us if we tender one word of advice before parting with her on the heights of Urrard – a spot which was once – and we hope will be again – the home of more worth, beauty, and excellence, than is often to be found within the circle of a single family. She ought to be very cautious in her attempts to write in the Scottish dialect. Few, even of those who have habitually heard it spoken from their childhood, can discern the almost indefinable line which exists between the older and purer phraseology, and that which is more corrupt. The very spelling of the words is a matter of considerable difficulty, and when not correctly written, the effect is any thing but pleasing. With this hint and another extract we shall return the volume to better keeping than our own, with our sincere approval of its contents, and our admiration for the genius of the writer.
"The Old House of Urrard"Dost fear the grim brown twilight?Dost care to walk alone,When the firs upon the hill-topWith human voices moan?When the river twineth restlessThrough deep and jagged linn,Like one who cannot sleep o' nightsFor evil thoughts within?When the hooting owls grow silent,The ghostly sounds to hark,In the ancient house of Urrard,When the night is still and dark."There are graves about old Urrard,Huge mounds by rock and tree;And they who lie beneath themDied fighting by Dundee.Far down along the valley,And up along the hill,The fight of KillicrankieHas left a story still.But thickest show the tracesAnd thickest throng the sprites,In the woods about old Urrard,On the gloomy winter nights."In the garden of old Urrard,Among the bosky yews,A turfen hillock risethWhere latest lie the dews;Here sank the warrior strickenBy charmèd silver ball,And all the hope of victoryFell with him in his fall.Last stay of exiled Stuart,Last heir of chivalrie,In the garden of old UrrardHe died, the brave Dundee!"In the ancient house of Urrard,There's many a hiding den;The very walls are hollow,To cover dying men;For not e'en lady's chamberBarr'd out the fierce affray;And couch and damask curtainWere stain'd with blood that dayAnd there's a secret passage,Whence sword, and skull, and bone,Were brought to light in Urrard,When years had pass'd and gone."If thou sleep alone in Urrard,Perchance in midnight gloomThou'lt hear behind the wainscotOf that old haunted room,A fleshless hand that knocketh,A wail that cries on thee;And rattling limbs that struggleTo break out and be free.It is a thought of horror! —I would not sleep aloneIn the haunted rooms of Urrard,Where evil deeds were done."Amidst the dust of garretsThat stretch along the roof,Stand chests of ancient garmentsOf gold and silken woof.When men are lock'd in slumber,The rustling sounds are heardOf dainty ladies' dresses,Of laugh and whisper'd word,Of waving wind of feathers,And steps of dancing feet,In the haunted halls of Urrard,When the winds of winter beat."We cannot altogether dismiss the book without bearing testimony to the merits of M'Ian, a rising artist and thorough Highlander, already favourably known to the public by his Sketches of the Clans, and other admirable works. Few pictures have ever affected us more than his Highland prisoner, exhibited last year in the Royal Academy, into which he has thrown a far deeper feeling, both of poetry and romance, than is at the command of many of his brethren, whose names are more widely bruited than his own. We send him across the Border our cordial greeting, and our best wishes for his continued success and prosperity.
And here we should have concluded this article in peace and amity with all men – haunted by no other thoughts save those of sweet recollection – and as innocent of blood as our terrier pup, who, we are gratified to observe, is at this moment vainly attempting to enlarge a casual fracture in our slipper. But our eye has accidentally lighted upon a fugitive volume, half smothered beneath a heap of share-lists; and mindful of our duty, however painful, we drag forth the impostor to his doom. Morning and other Poems, by a Member of the Scotch Bar! Why, the very name of the book is enough to betray its spurious origin. The unfortunate person who has rashly attempted to give currency to his verses by assuming a high and honourable position, to which, we believe from the bottom of our soul, he has not the remotest pretension – has not even taken the pains to ascertain the corporate name of the body with which he claims affiliation, and bungles even in the title-page. With the members of the Scottish Bar we have some acquaintance – nay, we think that – from habitual attendance at the Parliament House, being unfortunately implicated in a law-plea as interminable as that of Peebles against Plainstanes – we know almost every one of them by headmark, from the Pet of the Stove, whose snuff-box is as open as his heart, to the saturnine gentleman who is never seen beyond the precincts of the First Division. We acquit every one of them of participation in this dreary drivel.
It may be that the gods have not made all of them poetical – and, for the sake of the judges, we opine that it is better so – yet some rank amongst our dearest and most choice contributors; nor, we believe, is there one out of the whole genuine fraternity of educated and accomplished gentlemen who could not, if required, versify a summons, or turn out a Lay of the Multiplepoinding, equal, if not superior, to Schiller's Song of the Bell. It is rather too much that the literary character of the bar of Scotland is to be jeopardied by the dulness of the author of Morning and other Poems. Why has he not the courage, instead of sheltering himself under a legal denomination common to some three hundred gentlemen, to place his own name upon the title-page, and stand or fall by the bantlings of his own creation? Does he think, forsooth, that it is beneath the dignity of a barrister to publish verses, or to hold at any time a brief in the court of Apollo? If so, why does he attempt to thrust forward his vocation so wantonly? But he knows that it is no disgrace. The literary reputation of the bar is so high, that he actually assumes the title for the sake of obtaining a hearing, and yet merges his own individuality, so that he may be enabled to slink away in silence and obscurity from the ridicule which is sure to overwhelm him.
