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THE HUBBLE-SHUE.


BY

MISS CARSTAIRS.


    Harry, harry, hobillischowe!
    Se quha is cummyn nowe.

    THE CRYING OF ANE PLAYE.


[THIRTY COPIES PRINTED.]

EDINBURGH:
Printed by ANDREW SHORTREDE, Thistle Lane.




INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.


If originality be a test of genius, the authoress of the _Hubble-Shue_
bids fair to rank highest amongst the dramatic writers of the last
century. This rare merit even the most fastidious critic must allow:
but her histrionic essay is, in another respect, equally remarkable. We
are told that obscurity is one of the sources of the sublime; and who
will presume to deny that this drama is not sufficiently obscure?
Perhaps the most remarkable feature in it is that singular, partially
intelligible mystification, which we in vain look for in other writers:
thus, when Gustard enters with his sword drawn, is it possible to
figure any thing more intelligible and natural than that the cat should
run in beneath the bed? But, on the other hand, who was Gustard?--why
was his sword drawn?--what did he want?--how came the cat there? are
questions, the solution of which is not easy. Then we have the
interesting Lady Gundie, who flits across the stage without saying a
word, like one of the phantom kings in Macbeth, leaving the beholder in
a state of the most feverish excitement. In short, so much is left to
the imagination, that the mind gets quite bewildered, and we regard
with most profound veneration a drama capable of producing such
extraordinary sensations.

Perhaps there is not in the forcible vernacular of our country, a more
touching description than the interesting child's graphic account of
the horrid crocodile devouring a yellow Indian for his luncheon, with
as much relish, and as little remorse, as the pitiless black men seized
upon the blessed missionary, and "eat him all up."[1] Hard must that
heart be, which cannot feel for the situation of the hapless
daughter--who but a Cannibal or a Whig would refuse a tear of
sympathy?--and who does not fondly hope that the charming little story
teller will be relieved by the "little senna," and "the puke" which the
tender apothecary, in the fulness of his heart, prescribes for her?
Touches such as these mark the poet. Were we, however, to dwell upon
all the beauties, our pages would swell into a large folio; but we must
restrain our inclinations, as we intend gratifying our readers with a
few extracts from the poetical lucubrations of the amiable writer, of
whose personal history, we regret to say, little is known.

      [1] The lamentable occurrence, to which allusion is here made, is
      as follows:--

      A venerable missionary was put ashore on one of the South Sea
      Islands, where he was most graciously received by the king,
      queen, and the rest of the royal family. During the time the
      vessel remained, which was only a few days, this useful person
      was fed most luxuriously, and every attention was paid to
      him--the result of which was, that in a short time he became
      uncommonly plump. The vessel which brought him, had occasion a
      few months afterwards to touch at the island, and inquiry was
      made for the excellent person who had been left there. But the
      king and court did not seem inclined to afford much information,
      merely contenting themselves with answering, "Squi wab squob
      squavarab skoi rig," which, being interpreted, runs thus, "Very
      fine man the missionary." At last the captain got the king and
      some of the chiefs to dinner, when his majesty, (after having got
      drunk, in answer to an inquiry after the missionary,) exclaimed,
      "Squi wab squob squavarab skoi rig, skadery shoy oy lig baggary
      bhum;" meaning, "Fine man the missionary--eat him all up one
      day."

      It turned out that the missionary, in consequence of good usage,
      had got so fat and sleek, that the king and chiefs could not
      resist the inclination, which, during the progress of his
      fattening had been increasing; so they gave a public feast, at
      which the missionary, cooked in a variety of ways, formed the
      standing dish.

Her name, it is understood, was Carstairs. She was by occupation a
governess, and was nearly related to the Bruce Carstairs, a family of
great respectability in Fifeshire.

In the year 1786, there was published "Original Poems, by a Lady,
dedicated to Miss Ann Henderson. A tribute to gratitude and
friendship." Edinburgh, 4to. To the copy presently before the editor,
the following note is attached: "These poems, neatly stitched in
marbled paper, price 6sh. Commissions to be sent to Mr Andrew Steel,[2]
writer, Adam's Court; Mr F. Fraser, writer, James's Court; and Mrs
Robertson, foot of New Street." Besides the internal evidence,
sufficient in itself to fix the authorship upon Miss Carstairs, she
has herself removed all dubiety by mentioning upon the first number,
that this poetical banquet has been prepared "by the author of the
Hubble-Shue."

      [2] Afterwards a Writer to the Signet--better known as the great
      Peat Moss Philosopher.

Where there is such a variety of sweets, selection is difficult, but we
will do our best. There is one charming little song entitled "The
Basket of Flowers," in which the sentiment and versification are alike
admirable. There is a touching simplicity about it, with which the
reader will doubtlessly be enraptured:--

    Profusely gay, they catch the eye,
    This one I chuse and most admire.
                                   &c.

    Such as the rose may MARY be,
    When youth is fled. She's good to me.
                                   &c.

    Stranger I came without a name,
    All these fine flowers she brought to me.
                                   &c.

    Softly, my lyre--that silken string,
    Tuned to a gift so sweet to sing.
                                   &c.

    The blushing rose, and jessamine,
    Sweet is that air--sweet lyre again.
                                   &c.

    Than blushing rose or jessamine,
    Dearer to me in friendship's name.
                                   &c.

    Softly, my lyre, that trembling string,
    Friendship so new, a fleeting thing!
                                   &c.

    No, strike! nor tremble, tremble so,
    Friendship and virtue thou art one.
                Friendship and virtue, &c.

The lamentable fate of the hapless Mary has been made the subject of a
series of fragments, from which it would be unpardonable not to give a
specimen. Can there be any thing more affecting than the following?

    --Had she, as thou! Lucretia--durst--
    But here the soul! superior by her faith,
    Triumph'd--and for her country and her son,
    Endured, in misery, all her cruel fate,
    Accursed marriage!--deep laid Malice. O MARY!
    Their vill'nous designs--were here accomplish'd,--
    And stabb'd thy fame! But time shall bring to light
    Their darkest deeds--and heal thy wounded name.
    --Avaunt thou!--Murray, Morton, Bothwell,
    And thou Elizabeth, great as a Queen,
    But deadly in thy hate--as desperate by thy love.
    Mary and Essex, victims of thy ire,
    Bright stars that fell by thy malignant breath,
    Yet, yet I weep for thee--thy woman's weakness,
                      And thy jealous mind,--
    O they were punishment enough--forgive,
    Forgive, O mighty God! forgive.

Many have written on this subject, but certainly none more effectively
than Miss Carstairs, although passages do occur in the magnificent
historical poem of Mary Queen of Scots, by Margaretta Wedderburn,[3]
which may admit of a comparison. We may instance that in which the
unfortunate Mary is made to say,

    In history, my foul catastrophe
    Is told by Dr Robertson, and others,
    In colours lively, delicate, and just.

      [3] Bannatyne Club Edition. Edin. 1811.

As every one must be familiar with a poem, which will be read when
Shakespeare and Byron are not, a simple reference only is necessary.
One of the first poets of the age has more recently enriched the pages
of the New Scots Magazine with verses on the same subject, yet we
must confess, in our humble estimation, that the Carstairs remains
inviolate--_virgo intacta_. That our readers, however, may judge
for themselves, we subjoin a stanza or two.

    I dwell upon a mournful theme; however dark it be,
    It is no vague, no empty dream, that visions such to me:
    Were all my numbers flowing rills, all glittering stars my dots,
    Yet could I never sing the ills of--Mary Queen of Scots!

    Oh! she was bright and beautiful--her charms her birth enhance;
    Descended from a hundred kings--the Dowager of France.
    Yet she was born in grief, to bear the trials Heaven allots--
    To which, "alas! all flesh is heir"--e'en Mary Queen of Scots!

    Yes, she was bright and beautiful--unfortunate and fair;
    The captive of a tyrant Queen, the victim of despair;
    What youthful heart from folly's free? what star hath not its spots?
    The virtues veil the faults we see in Mary Queen of Scots.

               *       *       *       *       *

    Away! away!--the breezes swell--the surging waters foam!
    "Farewell! beloved France; farewell, my country, and my home!
    "I'll never, never see thee more, tho' dear to all my thots:"[4]
    Thus sobb'd, as sunk the fading shore, poor Mary Queen of Scots.[5]

      [4] Poetice for thoughts.

      [5] Ascribed to the immortal quill of Mr Charles Doyne Sillery.
      See _New Scots Mag._ vol. ii. p. 168.

We cannot pass over the little gem entitled

    THE NIGHTINGALE.

    Oh! could my sweet plaint lull to rest,
    Soften one sigh--as thou dream'st,
    I'd sit the whole night on thy tree,
    And sing, ---- ---- sing, ---- ----
                   With the thorn at my breast.

We omit innumerable beauties to insert this sweet song to the tune of
"Here awa', there awa'."

    Farewell my Betty, and farewell my Annie,
    And farewell my Ammie, and farewell my friends.
                                   &c.

    Farewell to these plains and to innocent freedom,
    Believe me, my heart was akin to these scenes.
                                   &c.

    In each cheerful moment I meant you a pleasure,
    And ne'er gave offence, but it gave me more pain.
                                   &c.

    Through the lang muir I'll think of my Willie,
    And through the lang muir I'll think o' him again.
          Through the lang muir I'll think o' my Willie,
          And through the lang muir I'll think o't again.

While the foregoing exquisite lines still ring upon the ears of the
reader, the merit of the ensuing stanzas cannot be fully appreciated.

    VERSES UPON A MUFF.

    Altho' it may be black,
    Altho' it may be grey,
    Altho' it may be brown,
    'Tis all the same to me.

    For while it keeps my fingers warm,
    I care not for its colour,
    But I wish it as large as a sugar barrel,
    And as soft as a down pillow.

It is delightful to mark the strong _amor patriae_ displayed in the
following lines addressed to a young lady who was going to India:

    Shall we once more then meet on Albion's coast,
    Before, my dear, in India you're a toast?
    There gilded pleasures wait your jet-black eyes,
    And Asian youths for Scots Maria dies.
    Yes! they may die--and die--and die again,
    But ye's return, and wed a Scotish swain--
                                  Or wed him there.

We shall conclude our extracts with the following magnificent effusion,
the exact meaning of which kindred minds only can understand.

    _Sept._ 13, 1786.

    ----In a triumphal car,
    Round the Town-house of Berwick,
    The Genius of Tweed
    Drove the Genius of Scotland,
    From Berwick to town, on a mouthful of porter
    She begg'd at a door of a generous ostler.

The Editor has now completed this arduous undertaking, in which his
sole object has been to rescue from oblivion these remarkable relics;
and although so many years have been sacrificed without the prospect of
a corresponding return for the laborious exertion bestowed--severer
than was at first anticipated--he has steadfastly brought the work to
a conclusion under circumstances of considerable difficulty and
discouragement. In conclusion, he has only to observe, that it has all
along been his anxious study to furnish, in a scrupulously faithful and
accurate manner, an exact copy of the text, without using even the
slightest liberty with the masculine phraseology of the original.

_December_, 1833.




THE HUBBLE-SHUE.


DEDICATED

TO THE

HONOURABLE ANTIQUARIAN SOCIETY.




THE HUBBLE-SHUE.




N.

'Tis false--'tis a mistake--there's not one word of truth in it.

M.

Never was a man so astonished--if he had been shot out of the mouth of
a cannon, he could not have been more confounded.

_Enter_ LADY GUNDIE.

Good God!--there is not one great name in the whole town that is not in
her list.

    No wonder than he was in a passion.
    She flew at him like a tiger.

N.

    No, no--he was in no passion.
    For God's sake let us hear some of her poems.

M.

Her poems!--some of them are pretty enough, to be sure--and feeling--as
one might say--(_takes a great snuff_)--But, for the dramatic piece,
certainly never was any thing so ridiculous.

N.

Her dramatic!--the thing she calls the _Scundum_ is ten times better
than the dramatic.

M.

Dare you, sir!--that's altogether an imposition--that verse was written
by her sister.

_Enter_ GUSTARD _with a drawn sword, and the Cat runs in beneath the
bed_.


SCENE II.

_A door opens, and discovers a long table, with twenty covers--a fine
sideboard, with a display of silver-plate, china, glasses, &c. The
company ushered in by a fine powdered footman_,--_The_ SCRIVENER _and
his_ WIFE--_their three_ DAUGHTERS--_a_ FAT MINISTER _and his_
DAUGHTER--_other two young_ LADIES--MRS UMPHREY, _a widow_--_a_ WEST
INDIAN STUDENT--_three_ LIEUTENANTS--_an_ IRISHMAN--_an old_ ENSIGN,
_and a_ COLONEL.

THE LADY OF THE HOUSE.

Do you choose a little soup, ma'am?

MRS ----

I am terribly fatigued--I would rather have a pate.

FAT MINISTER.

Hobbernob, Miss--Colonel, I fancy our bonny lasses at home are little
short of the three _tits_--you took at the battle of _Malplackuy_.

COLONEL.

I can remember yet how they blush'd, when they were set up amongst us
youngsters.

FAT MINISTER.

They would be educate in a nunnery.

COLONEL.

She had the most enchanting voice--the one with the dark hair.

ENSIGN.

It was the sweetest evening.

MRS UMPHREY.

Give me the pepper.

IRISHMAN.

Zoms--Miss--take care of your feathers--has the scoundrel spilt the
gravy down your back?

ENSIGN.

Colonel, do you remember the locket--on her white arm?

COLONEL.

And her mild blue eyes.

FAT MINISTER.

Ay, ay--He's wanting to introduce his story again; and to tell us how
she look'd when the soldiers crowded round the tent to listen to her
song.

COLONEL.

Sweet was her song.

      And soft the enchanted air,
    That angels paused, and hung
      Their golden harps.

ENSIGN.

She did not know at that time that her lover was wounded.

FAT MINISTER.

Come, Nan--give us one of your songs.

DAUGHTER.

Yes, papa.

    Down in the vale,
      The dew hung on the rose--

FAT MINISTER.

None of your vales, nor your dews and your roses--and your flowery
fields, and your myrtle groves.

    Play, "Up and waur them a', Willie."
    Miss, are you for a jig?

COLONEL.

Ladies, good-night--I have seen the time when I would have passed up
amongst the gayest--I am now an old fellow.

FAT MINISTER.

And has a tear for pity.

COLONEL.

Yes, sir; and a heart that can feel the happiness of others.

(_They all crowd round him._)

Oh, sir, you must not leave us--you must not go away.

(_The Company move to the Withdrawing Room._)

FAT MINISTER.

Come, Miss, give us your Italian--

MISS.

Yes, papa.

    Si li si ti o to,
    Ki li qui si o so,
      Fa la se scud.
    Qui a vi a vi a,
    Que a vi a ve a,
      Qui a vi a bo, &c.

_Enter_ MRS CONSUL _and her_ GRANDCHILD.

MRS CONSUL.

Madam, I beg you ten thousand pardons, it was not in my power to wait
