"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.