is soon deepened. The Scottish chiefs are summoned to attend that stormy and contentious council so disastrous to themselves and their country. The son of the Gordon,-a brave and an amorous youth, appears at the head of his followers when the debate is high, and Sir Alan Swinton is counselling the chiefs to retire to a tent, and conceal their dissensions from their army. Gordon had never before looked on the enemy of his house-his emotions before Swinton are singularly natural and original. Gordon (to Vipont.) That helmetless old Knight, his giant stature, His awful accents of rebuke and wisdom, Have caught my fancy strangely. He doth seem 'Tis a brave youth. How blushed his noble cheek, While youthful modesty and the embar rasment Of curiosity, combined with wonder, Into revenge's glow. Now, now 'tis out; The impetuous youth is restrained from attacking Sir Alan by the force and persuasion of De Vipont; meanwhile, the leaders return from council-their private deliberation had been stormy and contentious, and the marshalling of their army is left to popular discretion-to the direction Like to some visioned form which I have of chance. Swinton stands ruminat There's other work in hand Gordon. I will but ask his name. There's in his presence Something that works upon me like a spell, Or like the feeling made my childish ear Doat upon tales of superstitious dread, Attracting while they chill'd my heart with fear. Now, born the Gordon, I do feel right well I'm bound to fear nought earthly-and I fear nought. I'll know who this man is (Accosts Swinton. Sir Knight, I pray you, of your gentle courtesy, To tell your honour'd name. I am ashamed, Being unknown in arms, to say that mine Is Adam Gordon. Swinton. It is a name that soundeth in my ear Like to a death-knell-Ay, and like the call Of the shrill trumpet to the mortal lists; Yet 'tis a name which ne'er hath been dishonoured, And never will, I trust-most surely never By such a youth as thou. Gordon. There's a mysterious courtesy in this, And yet it yields no answer to my question. I trust, you hold the Gordon not unworthy To know the name he asks? Swinton. Worthy of all that openness and honour May show to friend or foe-but, for my ing on the impending fate of his country; the noble mind of Gordon softens and relents as he gazes on the face of command, and hearkens to grey hairs, the stalwart form and the ancient and considerate wisdom of him who slew his father. But his wisdom is wasted-for the spirit of misrule and infatuation has flown forth-and the army stands an open mark to the distant and fatal attack of the archers. All this is not unnoticed of Gordon, whose admiration of Swinton increases more and moreindeed the changes of his free and enthusiastic spirit from hatred to awe, from awe to admiration, and from admiration to love, are brought about in a manner equally natural and beautiful: has ever the name of Gordon received so fine a compliment? For the counsel of the old warrior we must make a little room. Swinton. 'Tis a proud word to speak; but he who fought Long under Robert Bruce, may something guess, Without communication with the dead, had bidden ye Review your battle-order, marshall'd broadly Here on the bare hill-side, and hidden you mark Yon clouds of Southron archers bearing down To the green meadow lands which stretch beneath The Bruce had warn'd you, not a shaft today But shall find mark within a Scottish bo som, If thus our field be ordered. The callow boys Who draw but four foot bows, shall gall our front, While on our mainward, and upon the rear, The cloth-yard shafts shall fall like death's own darts * Hob Hattely, or, if you like it better, Under this border-guide they march in silence, by a winding and unsus*pected way, to attack the archers; and this brings us to the conclusion of the first act. But let a body of your chosen horse Shall sit in widowhood and long for venison, The Regent rejects his counsel Here I remit unto the knight of Swinton By no base fear or composition moved, But by the thought that in our country's battle All hearts should be as one. # Swinton. Alas! brave youth, 'tis I should kneel to you, And, tendering thee the hilt of the fell sword That made thee fatherless, bid thee use the point After thine own discretion. (P. 61–63.) The followers of the ancient knight of Swinton, diminished to sixty, are now augmented by the soldiers of Sir Adam Gordon. Forsaken by the Regent, and deserted by the nobles, they resolve to move down the hill and attack the English bowmen, who are waiting their monarch's signal to begin the battle. A skilful guide is wanted who will conduct them down the woody side of the hill unexposed in their advance to the archers. Hob Hattely, a border marauder, alternately the plunderer and defender of his country, starts out of a bush, and exclaims The second and final act opens by conference among the English chiefs-where the rough, blunt, and crafty Chandos, and the proud and martial Percy, distinguish themselves. They are standing looking on the disarray of the Scottish army, and they discourse with King Edward about Robert Bruce and his famous Generals, Douglas and Randolph-and of the encounter he had with them in the north of England. It is very characteristic. Chandos. Your first campaign, my liege? -that was in Weardale, When Douglas gave our camp yon midnight ruffle, And turn'd men's beds to biers. King Edward. Ay, by Saint Edward! I was a soldier then for holidays, rest Was startled by the cry of Douglas! Stood Alan Swinton, with his bloody mace. chaplain, Heaven quit his spirit! caught a weapon up! King Edward gives the signal for the archers to commence the attack the flight of the cloth-yard shaftswhich, as the historian says, of the field of Poictiers, "fell so wholly and their effects upon the northern and so thick that it seemed to snow;' brief and picturesque manner: host are described in the following King Edward. See, Chandos, Percy Ha, Saint George! Saint Edward! Which no mail-coat can brook.-Brave Had loosed five thousand bow strings. At this moment Swinton and Gordon rush upon the flank of the archers, Hob. So here he stands.-An ancient and Edward, and Chandos, and Percy friend, Sir Alan, lead against them the flower of the English chivalry. But before their aid arrives the bowmen are broken and dispersed; their leaders, De Grey and Selby, are slain, and the banners of Swinton and Gordon wave side by side, and their war-cries sound together. In this brief interval are crowded many beauties. The character of the gallant yeomen of Old England is drawn by one who loves the blunt and kindly spirit of the peasantry; and it is made to come from the lips of him who had proven on many fields the might of those arms which were distinguished by so many victories in Scotland, in France, and in Spain. hearth And field, as free as the best lord his barony, Leading the van on every day of battle, Veiled in such low estate-therefore I mourn them. Swinton. I'll keep my sorrow for our native Scotch, Who, spite of hardship, poverty, oppression, Still follow to the field their chieftain's banner, And die in the defence on't. Gordon. And if I live and see my halls again, They shall have portion in the good they fight for. Each hardy follower shall have his field, His household hearth and sod built home, as free As ever Southron had. They shall be happy! And my Elizabeth shall smile to see it!— Do not believe it. Vipont, do thou look out from yonder height, And see what motion in the Scottish host, And in King Edward's. (Exit Vipont. Now will I counsel thee; The Templar's ear is for no tale of love, Being wedded to his order. But I tell thee, The brave young knight that hath no lady love Is like a lamp unlighted; his brave deeds, Gordon. Must I then speak of her to you, The thought of thee, and of thy matchless strength, Hath conjured phantoms up amongst her dreams. The name of Swinton hath been spell suf ficient Tochace the rich blood from her lovely cheek, Gordon. O, thou shalt see its fairest grace In my Elizabeth. And if music touch theeSwinton. It did, before disasters had untuned me. Gordon. O, her notes the first And choicest homage render to the enchantress. (P. 90-94.) The poem now hastens to a close the charge of the English chivalry overpowers the small and heroic band of Swinton and of Gordon-but in the very whirlwind and tumult of the fight the poet introduces one of those touching and masterly strokes by which he redeems some of his most repulsive characters. We have mentioned the guide, Hob Hattely, who undertook to conduct the chief, whose cattle he had recently stolen, upon the flank of the English archers. He is introduced to us as a common forayer of friend and foe, and we have no hope that he will rise in our estimation. But look at the close of his career, and see how the poet exalts him, by one of those natural and delicious touches which redeems from utter loathing the character of Serjeant Bothwell. Every one must remember his bloody bed of heather my reins Upon my palfrey's neck, and let him loose. Within an hour he stands before my gate; And Magdalen will need no other token To bid the Melrose monks say masses for me. (P. 99, 100.) After a short and severe contest, the little band of patriots is overpowered by numbers-Swinton appears dying on the field of battle, and Gordon is seated mortally wounded beside him. The sound of the distant shout and encounter of the main armies comes down the hill of Halidon-but we care not to know who are the victors or the vanquished--the fate of the day has no interest for us, farther than it gives utterance to some noble and affectionate sentiments, and includes some of those electric glancings back to better days, for which the poet is so peculiarly distinguished. The dying conference between the aged and the youthful warrior is full of pathetic, beauty-but we must go on to the catastrophe. King Edward, and Chandos, and Percy, and Baliol return from the defeat of the main battle-and find Swinton dead, Gordon dying, and De Vipont at his side. King Edward. Disarm them-harm them not; though it was they Made havoc on the archers of our vanguard, They, and that bulky champion. Where is he? Chandos. Here lies the giant! say his Chandos. I question'd thee in sport. I Thy information, youth. Who that has fought Through all these Scottish wars, but knows that crest, Gordon. And let mine Sleep at his side, in token that our death Ended the feud of Swinton and of Gordon. Gordon. Enough to say,--Scotland--Elizabeth.(dies.) (P.106.) Such is the drama, by which, after a lapse of seven years, Sir Walter Scott announces the return of his allegiance to the national muse. The force, and vivacity, and sweetness of of this chivalrous composition. The the poetry form not the main charm pure and pathetic story, so clear and so characteristic, takes complete possession of the mind and heart, and we scarcely heed the singular inequality of numbers which may be found here and there, scattered in nature's careless haste, and which we leave to the malice of regular reviewers. The Circumstance rises above circumstance, augmenting our esteem, and increasing our admiration. So strongly does the story seize upon our feelings, that we almost wish to pursue it to a close, without pausing to admire the bold and impressive-the lofty and familiar-the concise and the diffuse language in which its varied scenes are expressed. graphic presentment of character and action-of living life and inanimate nature of ancient and present manners the magical skill with which these qualities are interwoven with the texture of the story, and for which our great poet has been so long distinguished, are all here gathered together into one little spot, and lavished in the embellishment of a tale of a few hours' continuance. A drama so purely national in all its parts comes home to every native heart, and is worth a dozen of those productions scrupulously elaborated out to classic sampler and pattern. Nature is the best classic-and every one must court her who hopes existence for his works. Characters and incidents, exalted and dramatic in the highest acceptation of the words, are to be found in our domestic stories, and our national histories. Why should we seek in a foreign land, among strangers and aliens, whose manners and feelings find no echo in our own bosoms, for dramatic deeds and characters? We cannot animate them with their own peculiar spirit; we cannot endow them with their own peculiar feelings; what we know of them cannot be from a natural knowledge, but through the eyes of other men. To the poet who chooses an ancient theme, we say, "What is Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba?" It is this love of homethis admiration of noble names-of heroic deeds-of all that is dear to British memories and British hearts; the lake, the sea, the shore, the greenwood, and the mountain, where we have lived, where we have loved, where we have enjoyed, which renders the poetry of the author of Halidon so justly dear to us. He is purely native; the poet of humble life, and of heroes and of sages. All that he looks upon and touches starts into life and animation. Ancient manners, of which scarce a trace is left; the battles of yore, fought in private feud, or in repulsing a foreign enemy; the forms, the deeds, the words of those renowned in history or tradition; the hero who led, the peasant who drew the bow; the noble and the mean, the knight and the knave, all appear again, summoned to our sight by the sorcery of song. His rapid march, and his glowing descriptions, take entire possession of the reader; we take up his works, and we wish not to lay them down; and cannot, if we wish, till we come to the end of his story; the last page alone closes the enchantment. Many of the passages in his romantic stories cannot be read without an unconscious chaunt; such lyrical grace and beauty are not very common in regular song. Froissart, and some of the old romances, have occasionally something of the same spirit, and graphic power of description; indeed, we are often reminded of those delightful works, so fresh, and so natural, and so lively, by the productions of Sir Walter Scott. We have heard that this drama was but the work of two days; and from the perfect shape which all possesses that issues from his mind, we have little doubt of the truth of the rumour. The conversation of the poet, on a subject which interests him, has all the liveliness, correctness, and dramatic peculiarity which distinguish those inimitable tales ascribed to his pen. His exquisite sense of propriety-his nice tact and perception of what should be said, render his oral anecdotes and stories as rich, and characteristic, and accurate, in point of conception and composition, as any of his written productions. That he can so wholly possess himself of his subject, as will enable him to strike off at one glowing heat such a tale as that of Halidon Hill, can be no matter for wonder to those who know him. The inimitable tale-the Tam O'Shanter of Burns, occupied the poet about the same length of time, and in the meditation melted him into tears: we know not that this drama was written under a moist impulse-it has moistened the eyes of many readers, and the writer of this hasty and imperfect notice cares not who knows that he has dropt a tear or two over the fate of Sir Alan Swinton, and Sir Adam Gordon. C. REPORT OF MUSIC. IT has long been a subject of regret, that a school of music should be wanting to the institutions established in this country for the diffusion of the fine arts. About three years ago, in an essay on the characVOL. VI. ter of musicians, printed in the Quarterly Musical Review, a public academy was strenuously recommended, and has been repeatedly advocated at subsequent intervals of time. Early in the present season we were O |