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ART. II. Halidon Hill; a Dramatic Sketch, from Scottish History. By Sir Walter Scott, Bart. Svo, pp. 112. 6s. Hurst and Co. 1822.

THIS, we understand, unlike the earlier poems of its author, has not been received into the ranks of popular favour. Such rumours, of course, have no effect on our critical judgment; but we cannot forbear saying, that, thinking, as we do, very highly of the spirit and taste with which an interesting tale is here sketched in natural and energetic verse, we are, yet, far from feeling surprised, that the approbation, which it is our pleasing duty to bestow, should not have been anticipated by the ordinary readers of the work before us. It bears, in truth, no great resemblance to the narrative poems, from which Sir Walter Scott derived his first and high reputation, and by which for the present, his genius must be characterised. It is wholly free from many of their most obvious faults-their carelessness, their irregularity, and their inequality both of conception and of execution but it wants, likewise, no inconsiderable portion of their beauties it has less "pomp and circumstance," less picturesque description, romantic association, and chivalrous glitter, less sentiment and reflection, less, perhaps, of all their striking charms, with the single exception of that one redeeming and sufficing quality, which forms, in our view, the highest recommendation of all the author's works of imagination, their unaffected and unflagging VIGOUR. This, perhaps, after all, is only saying, that we have before us a dramatic poem instead of a metrical tale of romance, and that the author has had too much taste and discretion to bedizen his scenes with inappropriate and encumbering ornament. There is, however, a class of readers of poetry, and a pretty large class too, who have no relish for a work, however naturally and strongly the characters and incidents may be conceived and sustained-however appropriate and manly may be the imagery and diction-from which they cannot select any isolated passages, to store in their memories or their common-place-books, to whisper into a lady's ear, or transcribe into a lady's album. With this tea-table and watering place school of critics, "Halidon Hill' must expect no favour: it has no rant-no mysticism-and, worst offence of all, no affectation.

In the matter of style, indeed, Sir Walter has set an example, which the writers, and particularly the dramatic writers VOL. XVII. October, 1822.

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of the day, might, we think, do well to follow, though we have no hope, and to say the truth, not much ambition, to convert them or their admirers-the "Labeo" or the "Romulidæ saturi" of the age-to our opinion. We would, however, refer the opinion which we have so expressed, to the judgment of those-if such there be-who can condescend to be pleased by plain and genuine English, without any patches of the diction of this or that age-by unsought and natural images without conceit-and by a manly flow of versification without prosaic lines, or any of the other artifices of elaborate carelessness, "to split the ears of the groundlings."

The author has entitled his work " a Dramatic Sketch;" it consists, indeed, only of two acts, of moderate length, and, though we may not accede to the author's declaration, that it is in no particular calculated for the stage," we must not lead our readers to look for any thing amounting to a regular drama. It would, we think, form an underplot, of very great interest, in an historical play of customary length; and although its incidents and personages are mixed up, in these scenes, with an event of real history, there is nothing in either to prevent their being interwoven in the plot of any drama of which the action should lie in the confines of England and Scotland, at any of the very numerous periods of border warfare. The whole interest, indeed, of the story, is engrossed by two characters, imagined, as it appears to us, with great force and probability, and contrasted with considerable skill and effect. A dialogue between one of these persons (Alan Swinton, a veteran Scottish chieftain,) and Vipont, a Templar, holding also a rank in the army of their common country, is the method by which the author has thought fit to open the plot to his readers; and we do not know that we can adopt a shorter or pleasanter method of explaining it to our's.

"VIPONT (advancing).

"There needed not, to blazon forth the Swinton,
His ancient burgonet, the sable Boar

Chain'd to the gnarled oak,-nor his proud step,

Nor giant stature, nor the ponderous mace,
Which only he of Scotland's realm, can wield :
His discipline and wisdom mark the leader,

As doth his frame the champion. Hail, brave Swinton!

"SWINTON.

"Brave Templar, thanks! Such your cross'd shoulder speaks

you;

But the closed visor, which conceals your features,
Forbids more knowledge. Umfraville, perhaps-

"VIPONT (unclosing his helmet).

"No; one less worthy of our sacred Order.
Yet, unless Syrian suns have scorch'd my
Swart as my sable visor, Alan Swinton
Will welcome Symon Vipont.

"SWINTON (embracing him).

"As the blithe reaper

features

Welcomes a practised mate, when the ripe harvest
Lies deep before him, and the sun is high.
Thou❜lt follow yon old pennon, wilt thou not?
'Tis tatter'd since thou saw'st it, and the Boar-heads
Look as if brought from off some Christmas board,
Where knives had notch'd them deeply.

" VIPONT.

"Have with them ne'ertheless. The Stuart's Chequer,
The Bloody Heart of Douglass, Ross's Lymphads,
Sutherland's Wild-cats, nor the royal Lion,
Rampant in golden tressure, wins me from them.
We'll back the Boar-heads bravely. I see round them
A chosen band of lances-some well known to me.
Where's the main body of thy followers?

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"SWINTON.

Symon de Vipont, thou dost see them all
That Swinton's bugle-horn can call to battle,
However loud it rings. There's not a boy
Left in my halls, whose arm has strength enough
To bear a sword-there's not a man behind,
However old, who moves without a staff.
Striplings and greybeards, every one is here,
And here all should be-Scotland needs them all;
And more and better men, were each a Hercules,
And yonder handful centuplied.

VIPONT.

"A thousand followers-such, with friends and kinsmen, Allies and vassals, thou wert wont to lead

A thousand followers shrunk to sixty lances

In twelve years' space!-And thy brave sons, Sir Alan, Alas! I fear to ask.

SWINTON.

"All slain, De Vipont. In my empty home

A

puny babe lisps to a widow'd mother,

Where is my grandsire? wherefore do you weep?' But for that prattler Lyulph's house is heirless.

I'm an old oak, from which the foresters

Have hew'd four goodly boughs, and left beside me,
Only a sapling, which the fawn may crush
As he springs over it.

"All slain-alas!

"VIPONT.

"SWINTON.

"Ay, all, De Vipont. And their attributes,
John with the Long Spear-Archibald with the Axe-
Richard the Ready-and my youngest darling,
My Fair-haired William--do but now survive
In measures which the grey-hair'd minstrels sing,
When they make maidens weep.

"VIPONT.

"These wars with England, they have rooted out
The flowers of Christendom. Knights, who might win
The sepulchre of Christ from the rude heath,
Fall in unholy warfare!

"SWINTON.

"Unholy warfare? ay, well hast thou named it:
But not with England-would her cloth-yard shafts
Had bored their cuirasses! Their lives had been
Lost like their grandsire's, in the bold defence
Of their dear country-but in private feud
With the proud Gordon, fell my Long-spear'd John,
He with the Axe, and he men call'd the Ready,
Ay, and my Fair-hair'd Will-the Gordon's wrath
Devour'd my gallant issue.

66 VIPONT.

"Since thou dost weep, their death is unavenged?

"SWINTON.

"Templar, what think'st thou me ?-See yonder rock, From which the fountain gushes-is it less

Compact of adamant, though waters flow from it?
Firm hearts have moister eyes.-They are avenged;
I wept not till they were-till the proud Gordon
Had with his life-blood dyed my father's sword,
In guerdon that he thinn'd my father's lineage,
And then I wept my sons; and, as the Gordon
Lay at my feet, there was a tear for him,
Which mingled with the rest.—We had been friends,
Had shared the banquet and the chase together,
Fought side by side, and our first cause of strife,
Woe to the pride of both, was but a light one.

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"You are at feud, then, with the mighty Gordon?

"SWINTON.

"At deadly feud. Here in this Border-land, Where the sire's quarrels descend upon the son, As due a part of his inheritance,

As the strong castle and the ancient blazon,

Where private Vengeance holds the scales of Justice,
Weighing each drop of blood as scrupulously
As Jews or Lombards balance silver pence,
Not in this land, 'twixt Solway and Saint Abb's,
Rages a bitterer feud than mine and their's,

The Swinton and the Gordon." P. 24.

Such are the leaders, whom the author has brought together, in the battle from which his Drama is named-a battle fought in the reign of Edward the Third, between the Scotch and the English, when that monarch aided Edward Balio in his second attempt to obtain the throne of Scotland. The incident, however, is taken from a battle, more than half a century later, in the reign of Henry the Fourth, when an army of Scottish invaders under Archibald, Earl of Douglas, were defeated at Homildon, by Percy, Earl of Northumberland, and his son, the Hotspur of Shakspeare. It is, it seems, the author's unwillingness to bring again upon the stage a character so consecrated by poetical associations and remembrances, which has induced him to transfer to the earlier battle, the events which are recorded as having signalised the later one, and which Pinkerton, the historian of Scotland, has related in the following terms.

"The English advanced to the assault, and Henry Percy was about to lead them up the hill, when March caught his bridle, and advised him to advance no farther, but to pour the dreadful shower of English arrows into the enemy. This advice was followed with the usual fortune; for in all ages the bow was the English weapon of victory, and though the Scots, and perhaps the French, were superior in the use of the spear, yet this weapon was useless after the distant bow had decided the combat. Robert the Great, sensible of this at the battle of Bannockburn, ordered a prepared detachment of cavalry to rush among the English archers at the commencement, totally to disperse them, and stop the deadly effusion. But Douglas now used, no such precaution; and the consequence was, that his people, drawn up on the face of the hill, presented one general mark to the enemy, none of whose arrows descended in vain. The Scots fell without fight, and unrevenged, till a spirited knight, Swinton, exclaimed aloud, O my brave countrymen! what fascination has seized you to-day, that you stand like deer to be shot, instead of indulging your ancient courage, and meeting your enemies hand to hand? Let those who will, descend with me, that we may gain victory, or life, or fall like men.' This being heard by Adam Gordon, between whom and Swinton there existed an ancient deadly feud, attended with the mutual slaughter of many followers, he instantly fell on his knees before Swinton, begged his pardon, and desired to be dubbed a knight by him whom he must now regard as the wisest and the

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