Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine - Volume 54, No. 338, December 1843

After some little trial of our "public's" patience, the play began in good earnest, and was most favourably received. Indeed, as the only price of admission exacted was a promise of civil behaviour, and there were two servants busily employed in handing about punch and "bishop," it would have been rather hard if we did not succeed in propitiating their good-humour. With the exception of two gentlemen who had been dining out, and were rather noisy in consequence, and evinced a strong inclination occasionally to take a part in the dialogue, all behaved wonderfully well, greeting each performer, as he made his first entrance, with a due amount of cheering; rapturously applauding all the best scenes; laughing, (whether at the raciness of the acting or the grotesque metamorphoses of the actors, made no great difference,) and filling up any gap which occurred in the proceedings on the stage, in spite of the prompter, with vociferous encouragement to the "sticket" actor. With an audience so disposed, each successive scene went off better and better. One deserves to be particularized. It was the second in the first act of the comedy; the stage directions for it are as follow:—"Scene—An ale-house room.—Several shabby fellows with punch and tobacco; Tony at the head of the table, &c., discovered." Never perhaps, in any previous representation, was the mise en scène so perfect. It drew three rounds of applause. A very equivocal compliment to ourselves it may be; but such jolly-looking "shabby fellows" as sat round the table at which our Tony presided, were never furnished by the supernumeraries of Drury or Covent-garden. They were as classical, in their way, as Macready's Roman mob. Then there was no make-believe puffing of empty pipes, and fictitious drinking of small-beer for punch; every nose among the audience could appreciate the genuineness of both liquor and tobacco; and the hearty encore which the song, with its stentorian chorus, was honoured with, gave all the parties engaged time to enjoy their punch and their pipes to their satisfaction. It was quite a pity, as was unanimously agreed, when the entrance of Marlow and Hastings, as in duty bound, interrupted so jovial a society. But "all that's bright must fade"—and so the Three Pigeons' scene, and the play, too, came to an end in due course. The curtain fell amidst universal applause, modified only by the urgent request, which, as manager, I had more than once to repeat, that gentlemen would be kind enough to restrain their feelings for fear of disturbing the dons. The house resolved itself into its component elements—all went their ways—the reading men probably to a Greek play, by way of afterpiece—sleepy ones to bed, and idle ones to their various inventions—and the actors, after the fatigues of the night, to a supper, which was to be the "finish." It was to take place in one of the men's rooms which happened to be on the same staircase, and had been committed to the charge of certain parties, who understood our notions of an unexceptionable spread. And a right merry party we were—all sitting down in character, Mrs Hardcastle at the top of the table, her worthy partner at bottom, with the "young ladies" on each side. It was the best tableau of the evening; pity there was neither artist to sketch, nor spectators to admire it! But, like many other merry meetings, there are faithful portraits of it—proof impressions—in the memories of many who were present; not yet obliterated, hardly even dimmed, by time; laid by, like other valuables, which, in the turmoil of life, we find no time to look at, but not thrown aside or forgotten, and brought out sometimes, in holidays and quiet hours, for us to look at once more, and enjoy their beauty, and feel, after all, how much what we have changed is "calum non animum." I am now—no matter what. Of my companions at that well-remembered supper, one is a staid and orthodox divine; one a rising barrister; a third a respectable country gentleman, justice of the peace, "and quorum;" a fourth, they tell me, a semi Papist, but set us all down together in that same room, draw the champagne corks, and let some Lethe (the said champagne, if you please) wash out all that has passed over us in the last five years, and my word on it, three out of four of us are but boys still; and though much shaving, pearl powder, and carmine, might fail to make of any of the party a heroine of any more delicate class than Meg Merrilies, I have no doubt we could all of us once more smoke a pipe in character at "The Three Pigeons."

Merrily the evening passed off, and merrily the little hours came on, and song and laugh rather grew gayer than slackened. The strings of the stays had long ago been cut, and the tresses, which were in the way of the cigars, were thrown back in dishevelled elegance. The landlord found his stuffing somewhat warm, and had laid aside half his fleshy incumbrance. Every one was at his ease, and a most uproarious chorus had just been sung by the whole strength of the company, when we heard the ominous sound of a quiet double rap at the outer door.

"Who's there?" said one of the most self-possessed of the company.

"I wish to speak to Mr Challoner," was the quiet reply.

The owner of the rooms was luckily in no more outré costume than that of Sir Charles Marlow; and having thrown off his wig, and buttoned his coat over a deep-flapped waistcoat, looked tolerably like himself as he proceeded to answer the summons. I confess I rather hoped than otherwise, that the gentleman, whoever he was, would walk in, when, if he intended to astonish us, he was very likely to find the tables turned. However, even college dons recognize the principle, that every man's house is his castle, and never violate the sanctity of even an under-graduate's rooms. The object of this present visit, however, was rather friendly than otherwise; one of the fellows, deservedly popular, had been with the dean, and had left him in a state of some excitement from the increasing merriment which came somewhat too audibly across the quadrangle from our party. He had called, therefore, to advise Challoner, either to keep his friends quiet, or to get rid of them, if he wished to keep out of the dean's jurisdiction. As it was towards three in the morning, we thought it prudent to take this advice as it was meant, and in a few minutes began to wend our respective ways homewards. Leicester and myself, whose rooms lay in the same direction, were steering along, very soberly, under a bright moonlight, when something put it into the heads of some other stragglers of the party to break out, at the top of their voices, into a stanza of that immortal ditty—"We won't go home till morning." Instantly we could hear a window, which we well knew to be the dean's, open above us, and as the unmelodious chorus went on, his wrath found vent in the usual strain—"Who is making that disturbance?"

No one volunteering an explanation, he went on.

"Who are those in the quadrangle?" Leicester and I walked somewhat faster. I am not sure that our dignity did not condescend to run, as we heard steps coming down from No. 5, at a pace that evidently portended a chase, and remembered for the first time the remarkable costume, which, to common observers, would indicate that there was a visitor of an unusual character enjoying the moonlight in the quadrangle. When we reached the "thoroughfare," the passage from the inner to the outer quadrangle, we fairly bolted; and as the steps came pretty fast after us, and Leicester's rooms were the nearest, we both made good our retreat thither, and sported oak.

The porter's lodge was in the next number; and hearing a knocking in that quarter, Leicester gently opened the window, and we could catch the following dialogue:—

"Solomon! open this door directly—it is I—the dean."

"Good, dear sir!" said Solomon, apparently asleep, and fumbling for the keys of the college gates—"let you out? Oh yes! sir, directly."

"Listen to me, Solomon: I am not going out. Did you let any one out just now—just before I called you?"

"No, sir, nobody whatsomdever."

"Solomon! I ask you, did you not, just now, let a woman out?"

"Lawk! no, sir, Lord forbid!" said Solomon, now thoroughly wakened.

"Now, Solomon, bring your light, and come with me, this must be enquired into. I saw a woman run this way, and, if she is not gone through the gate, she is gone into this next number. Whose rooms are in No. 13?"

"There's Mr Dyson's, sir, on the ground floor."

Mr Dyson was the very fellow who had called at Challoner's rooms.

"Hah! well, I'll call Mr Dyson up. Whose besides?"

"There's Mr Leicester, sir, above his'n."

"Very well, Solomon; call up Mr Dyson, and say I wish to speak with him particularly."

And so saying, the dean proceeded up stairs.

The moment Leicester heard his name mentioned, he began to anticipate a domiciliary visit. The thing was so ridiculous that we hardly knew what to do.

"Shall I get into bed, Hawthorne? I don't want to be caught in this figure?"

"Why, I don't know that you will be safe there, in the present state of the dean's suspicions. No; tuck up those confounded petticoats, clap on your pea-jacket, twist those love-locks up under your cap, light this cigar, and sit in your easy-chair. The dean must be 'cuter than usual, if he finds you out as the lady he is in search of."

Leicester had hardly time to take this advice, the best I could hit upon at the moment, when the dean knocked at the door.

"Who are you? Come in," said we both in a breath.

"I beg your pardon, Mr Leicester," said the dean in his most official tone; "nothing but actually imperative duty occasions my intrusion at this unseasonable hour, but a most extraordinary circumstance must be my excuse. I say, gentlemen—I saw with my own eyes," he continued, looking blacker as he caught sight of me, and remembering, no doubt, the little episode of the stays—"I saw a female figure pass in this direction but a few minutes ago. No such person has passed the gate, for I have made enquiry; certainly I have no reason to suppose any such person is concealed here, but I am bound to ask you, sir, on your honour as a gentleman—for I have no wish to make a search—is there any such person concealed in your apartments?"

"On my honour, sir, no one is, or has been lately here, but myself and Mr Hawthorne."

Here Dyson came into the room, looking considerably mystified.

"What's the matter, Mr Dean?" said he, nodding good-humouredly to us.

"A most unpleasant occurrence, my dear sir; I have seen a woman in this direction not five minutes back. Unfortunately, I cannot be mistaken. She either passed into the porter's lodge or into this staircase."

"She is not in my rooms, I assure you," said he, laughing; "I should think you made a mistake: it must have been some man in a white mackintosh."

I smiled, and Leicester laughed outright.

"I am not mistaken, sir," said the dean warmly. "I shall take your word, Mr Leicester; but allow me to tell you, that your conduct in lolling in that chair as if in perfect contempt, and neither rising, nor removing your cap, when Mr Dyson and myself are in your rooms, is neither consistent with the respect due from an under-graduate, or the behaviour I should expect from a gentleman."

Poor Leicester coloured, and unwittingly removed his cap. The chestnut curls, some natural and some artificial, which had been so studiously arranged for Miss Hardcastle's head-dress, fell in dishevelled luxuriance round his face, and as he half rose from his previous position in the chair, a pink silk dress began to descend from under the pea-jacket. Concealment was at an end; the dean looked bewildered at first, and then savage; but a hearty laugh from Dyson settled the business.

"What, Leicester! you're the lady the dean has been hunting about college! Upon my word, this is the most absurd piece of masquerading!—what on earth is it all about?"

I pitied Leicester, he looked such an extraordinary figure in his ambiguous dress, and seemed so thoroughly ashamed of himself; so displaying the tops and cords in which I had enacted Hastings, I acknowledged my share in the business, and gave a brief history of the drama during my management. The dean endeavoured to look grave: Dyson gave way to undisguised amusement, and repeatedly exclaimed, "Oh! why did you not send me a ticket? When do you perform again?"

Alas! never. Brief, as bright, was our theatrical career. But the memory of it lives in the college still: of the comedy, and the supper, and the curious mistake which followed it: and the dean has not to this hour lost the credit which he then gained, of having a remarkably keen eye for a petticoat.

LINES WRITTEN IN THE ISLE OF BUTE

BY DELTA I Ere yet dim twilight brighten'd into day, Or waned the silver morning-star away, Shedding its last, lone, melancholy smile, Above the mountain-tops of far Argyle; Ere yet the solan's wing had brush'd the sea, Or issued from its cell the mountain bee; As dawn beyond the orient Cumbraes shone, Thy northern slope, Byrone, From Ascog's rocks, o'erflung with woodland bowers, With scarlet fuschias, and faint myrtle flowers, My steps essay'd; brushing the diamond dew From the soft moss, lithe grass, and harebell blue. Up from the heath aslant the linnet flew Startled, and rose the lark on twinkling wing, And soar'd away, to sing A farewell to the severing shades of night, A welcome to the morning's aureate light. Thy summit gain'd, how tranquilly serene, Beneath, outspread that panoramic scene Of continent and isle, and lake and sea, And tower and town, hill, vale, and spreading tree, And rock and ruin tinged with amethyst, Half-seen, half-hidden by the lazy mist, Volume on volume, which had vaguely wound The far off hills around, And now roll'd downwards; till on high were seen, Begirt with sombre larch, their foreheads green. II There, save when all, except the lark, was mute, Oh, beauty-breathing Bute On thee entranced I gazed; each moment brought A new creation to the eye of thought: The orient clouds all Iris' hues assumed, From the pale lily to the rose that bloom'd, And hung above the pathway of the sun, As if to harbinger his course begun; When, lo! his disk burst forth—his beams of gold Seem'd earth as with a garment to enfold, And from his piercing eye the loose mists flew, And heaven with arch of deep autumnal blue Glow'd overhead; while ocean, like a lake, Seeming delight to take In its own halcyon-calm, resplendent lay, From Western Kames to far Kilchattan bay. Old Largs look'd out amid the orient light, With its grey dwellings, and, in greenery bright, Lay Coila's classic shores reveal'd to sight; And like a Vallombrosa, veil'd in blue, Arose Mount Stuart's woodlands on the view; Kerry and Cowall their bold hill-tops show'd, And Arran, and Kintire; like rubies glow'd The jagged clefts of Goatfell; and below, As on a chart, delightful Rothesay lay, Whence sprang of human life the awakening sound, With all its happy dwellings, stretching round The semicircle of its sunbright bay. III Byrone, a type of peace thou seemest now, Yielding thy ridges to the rustic plough, With corn-fields at thy feet, and many a grove Whose songs are but of love; But different was the aspect of that hour, Which brought, of eld, the Norsemen o'er the deep, To wrest yon castle's walls from Scotland's power, And leave her brave to bleed, her fair to weep; When Husbac fierce, and Olave, Mona's king,5 Confederate chiefs, with shout and triumphing, Bade o'er its towers the Scaldic raven fly, And mock each storm-tost sea-king toiling by!— Far different were the days, When flew the fiery cross, with summoning blaze, O'er Blane's hill, and o'er Catan, and o'er Kames, And round thy peak the phalanx'd Butesmen stood,6 As Bruce's followers shed the Baliol's blood, Yea! gave each Saxon homestead to the flames! IV Proud palace-home of kings! what art thou now? Worn are the traceries of thy lofty brow! Yet once in beauteous strength like thee were none, When Rothesay's Duke was heir to Scotland's throne;7 Ere Falkland rose, or Holyrood, in thee The barons to their sovereign bow'd the knee: Now, as to mock thy pride The very waters of thy moat are dried; Through fractured arch and doorway freely pass The sunbeams, into halls o'ergrown with grass; Thy floors, unroof'd, are open to the sky, And the snows lodge there when the storm sweeps by; O'er thy grim battlements, where bent the bow Thine archers keen, now hops the chattering crow; And where the beauteous and the brave were guests, Now breed the bats—the swallows build their nests! Lost even the legend of the bloody stair, Whose steps wend downward to the house of prayer; Gone is the priest, and they who worshipp'd seem Phantoms to us—a dream within a dream; Earth hath o'ermantled each memorial stone, And from their tombs the very dust is gone; All perish'd, all forgotten, like the ray Which gilt yon orient hill-tops yesterday; All nameless, save mayhap one stalwart knight, Who fell with Græme in Falkirk's bloody fight— Bonkill's stout Stewart,8 whose heroic tale Oft circles yet the peasant's evening fire, And how he scorn'd to fly, and how he bled— He, whose effigies in St Mary's choir, With planted heel upon the lion's head, Now rests in marble mail. Yet still remains the small dark narrow room, Where the third Robert, yielding to the gloom Of his despair, heart-broken, laid him down, Refusing food, to die; and to the wall Turn'd his determined face, unheeding all, And to his captive boy-prince left his crown. 9 Alas! thy solitary hawthorn-tree, Four-centuried, and o'erthrown, is but of thee A type, majestic ruin: there it lies, And annually puts on its May-flower bloom, To fill thy lonely courts with bland perfume, Yet lifts no more its green head to the skies; 10 The last lone living thing around that knew Thy glory, when the dizziness and din Of thronging life o'erflow'd thy halls within, And o'er thy top St Andrew's banner flew. V Farewell! Elysian island of the west, Still be thy gardens brighten'd by the rose Of a perennial spring, and winter's snows Ne'er chill the warmth of thy maternal breast! May calms for ever sleep around thy coast, And desolating storms roll far away, While art with nature vies to form thy bay, Fairer than that which Naples makes her boast! Green link between the High-lands and the Low— Thou gem, half claim'd by earth, and half by sea— May blessings, like a flood, thy homes o'erflow, And health—though elsewhere lost—be found in thee! May thy bland zephyrs to the pallid cheek Of sickness ever roseate hues restore, And they who shun the rabble and the roar Of the wild world, on thy delightful shore Obtain that soft seclusion which they seek! Be this a stranger's farewell, green Byrone, Who ne'er hath trod thy heathery heights before, And ne'er may see thee more After yon autumn sun hath westering gone; Though oft, in pensive mood, when far away, 'Mid city multitudes, his thoughts will stray To Ascog's lake, blue-sleeping in the morn, And to the happy homesteads that adorn Thy Rothesay's lovely bay. ASCOG LODGE, EAST BAY, ROTHESAY, September 1843.

TRAVELS OF KERIM KHAN

CONCLUSION

While tracing the progress of our friend the Khan through the various scenes of amusement and festivity at which he assisted rather as a spectator than an actor, we had omitted to notice in its proper place an incident of some interest—his presence at the opening of the Parliamentary session of 1841, on the 26th of January, by the Queen in person. By the kindness of one of his friends, who was a member of the royal household, he had succeeded in obtaining a ticket of admission to the House of Lords, and was placed in a position which afforded him an excellent view of the brilliant multitude assembled to receive their sovereign. "When I had sufficiently recovered from the first impression of all the magnificence around me, I could compare it only to the Garden of Trem11—nay, it appeared even more wonderful than that marvellous place. At twelve o'clock, twenty-one peals of artillery announced the approach of the Queen, who shortly after entered with Prince Albert, followed by her train-bearers, &c. All rose as she advanced; and when the Lords were again seated, the cadhi-ab-codhat (Lord Chancellor) put a piece of paper in her hands, and placed himself on the right of the throne, while the grand-vizir stood on the left. Shortly after, the gentlemen of the House of Commons entered, when the Queen read with a loud voice from the paper to the following effect." We need not, however, follow the Khan through the details of the royal speech, or the debate on the address which succeeded, though, in the latter, he appears to have been thunderstruck by the freedom of language indulged in by a certain eccentric ex-chancellor, remarking, "that under the emperors of Delhi such latitude of speech, in reference to the sovereign, would inevitably have cost the offender his head, or at least have ensured his spending the remainder of his life in disgrace and exile at Mekka." On the dignified bearing and self-possession of our youthful sovereign, the Khan enlarges in the strain of eulogy which might be expected from one to whom the sight of the ensigns of sovereignty borne by a female hand was in itself an almost inconceivable novelty, declaring, that "the justice and virtues of her Majesty have obliterated the name of Nushirvan from the face of the earth!" But the remarks of the simple-minded Parsees on the same subject will be found, from their honest sincerity, we suspect, more germane to the matter—"We saw in an instant that she was fitted by nature for, and intended to be, a queen; we saw a native nobility about her, which induced us to believe that she could, though meek and amiable, be firm and decisive; ... that no man or set of men would be permitted by her to dictate a line of conduct; and that, knowing and feeling that she lived in the hearts and affections of her people, she would endeavour to temper justice with mercy; and we thought that if no unforeseen event (which God forbid) arose to dim the lustre of her reign, that the period of her sway in Britain would be quoted as the golden age."

After this introduction, the Khan appears to have become an occasional attendant in the gallery of the House of Commons, and was present at a debate on the admission of foreign corn, in which Lord Stanley, Sir Robert Peel, and Lord John Russell took part—"These three being the most eloquent of the speakers, and the chiefs of their respective parties, though several other members spoke at great length either for or against the motion, according as each was attached to one or other of the great factions which divide the House of Commons, and hold the destinies of the people in their hands." Of the speeches of these three leaders, and the arguments adduced by them, he accordingly attempts to give an abstract; though as his information must have been derived, we imagine, principally through the medium of an interpreter, this first essay at Parliamentary reporting is not particularly successful; and if we are to conclude, from his constant use of the phrase zemindars to denote the landed interest, that he considered the estates of the English proprietors to be held by zemindarry tenures similar to those in Bengal, his notions on the subject of the debate must have been considerably perplexed. "At length, however, as the debate had already been protracted to a late hour, and there was no probability of a speedy termination to this war of words, I left the House with no unfavourable impression of what I had heard. This eternal wrangling between the two factions is inherent, it appears, in the nature of the constitution. With us, two wise men never dispute; yet every individual member of the legislature is supposed to possess a certain share of wisdom—so that here are a thousand wise men constantly disputing. One would think no good could result from such endless differences of opinion; but the fact is the reverse—for from these debates result those measures which mark the character of the English for energy and love of liberty."