The king was well aware that he would receive ample praise for his production; king’s goods are ever the best in the market, and though, like every other literary man, it was praise and not criticism that James wanted, still he preferred to have such praise from the lips of one who knew something of the life he tried to sing; therefore, as evening came on, the monarch dressed himself in his farmer costume, and, taking his thirteen stanzas with him, ventured upon a cautious visit to his friend the cobbler in the lower town of Stirling.
The cobbler listened with an attention which was in itself flattering, and paid his royal visitor the additional compliment of asking him to repeat certain of the verses, which the king in his own heart thought were the best. Then when the thirteenth stanza was arrived at, with the “No-that-bad” commendation, which is dear to the heart of the chary Scotchman, be he of high or low degree, Flemming continued,—
“They might be worse, and we’ve had many a poet of great reputation in Scotland who would not be ashamed to father them. But I’m thinking you paint the existence of a beggar in brighter colours than the life itself warrants.”
“No, no, Flemming,” protested the king earnestly. “I’m convinced that only the beggar knows what true contentment is. You see he begins at the very bottom of the ladder and every step he takes must be a step upward. Now imagine a man at the top, like myself; any move I make in the way of changing my condition must be downward. A beggar is the real king, and a king is but a beggar, for he holds his position by the favour of others. You see, Flemming, anything a beggar gets is so much to the good; and, as he has nothing to lose, not even his head—for who would send a beggar to the block—he must needs be therefore the most contented man on the face of the footstool.”
“Oh, that’s maybe true enough,” replied Flemming, set in his own notion notwithstanding it was the king who opposed him; “but look you, what a scope a beggar has for envy, for there’s nobody he meets that’s not better off than himself.”
“You go to extremes, Flemming. An envious man is unhappy wherever you place him; but I’m speaking of ordinary persons like ourselves, with charity and good-will toward all their fellow-kind. That man, I say, is happier as a beggar than as a king.”
“Well, in so far as concerns myself, your majesty, I’d like to be sure of a roof over my head when the rain’s coming down, and of that a beggar never can be. A king or a cobbler has a place to lay his head, at any rate.”
“Aye,” admitted the king, “but sometimes that place is the block. To tell you the truth, Flemming, I’m thinking of taking a week at the begging myself. A poet should have practical knowledge of the subject about which he writes. Give me a week on the road, Flemming, and I’ll pen you a poem on beggary that will get warmer praise from you than this has had.”
“I give your rhyming the very highest praise, and say that Gavin Douglas himself might have been proud had he put those lines together.”
To this the king made no reply, and the cobbler, looking up at him, saw that a frown marred his brow. Then he remembered, as usual a trifle late, James’s hatred of the Douglas name; a hatred that had been honestly earned by the Earl of Angus, head of that clan. Flemming was learning that it was as dangerous to praise, as to criticise a king. With native caution however, the cobbler took no notice of his majesty’s displeasure, but added an amendment to his first statement.