highly valuable as a remarkable specimen of his style; but it is far from being either poetical or impressive, which such a subject is bound to be. This St John, by Guido, (24,) is chiefly remarkable as a departure from the usual style of that exquisite artist, who was content, in most instances, to sacrifice vigorous passion to grace and tenderness of expression. This is the only picture we have by Guido. By Murillo, here are too tolerably good pictures, St Francis at prayer, (55,) and St Francis in extacy, (61,) but they afford but a very indifferent notion of the peculiar manner of that charming painter. The cherubs, floating in the air like scattered rose-leaves, produce a delightful effect; but the principal figures contain little to admire or remember. Neither is this, Claude, (60,) which is the only one in the collection, a favourable specimen of that artist's divine creations. No one could have produced this picture except him; but if most of his works were not infinitely finer than this, he would not have deserved, or enjoyed, the reputation he does. Of the Florentine and Bolognese schools, we have little that calls for particular notice; though this portrait of Guercino, by himself, (2,) is interesting; and these three, by Domenichino, St Catherine, (9,) St Agnes, (56,) and St Jerome, (59,) are not without a certain characteristic power of style, which is, however, more striking and remarkable than it is impressive or natural. Here are three very favourable examples of Carlo Dolce's manner, A Magdalene, (16,) St John writing the Revelations, (77,) and St Mathew writing the Gospel, (80). The St John is certainly a very fine, rich, and harmonious work, fuller of character and passion than this painter's usually are, and most brilliantly coloured, and elaborately, but not finically, finished. It is one of his very best works. Here are also some exquisite specimens of the Dutch school, particularly Teniers. The Village Feast, (20,) and the Merry Making, (124,) are most choice and valuable works, full of nature and truth, and coloured (particularly the latter) with admirable clearness, sweetness, and transparency. By J. and A. Ostade, also, here are two of the finest and richest gems I have almost ever seen from these artists. A Traveller at a Cottage-door, (30,) by J. Ostade; and the Chemist in his Laboratory, (33,) by A. Ostade; both inimitable in their way, for richness of colouring and truth, and distinctness of touch. Here is also an exquisite little piece by Maes, a Female listening, (6;) and another by Metgn, a Man playing on a Violoncello, (73). There is something very curious in the effect produced on the mind of the spectator by these exceedingly high-finished pictures; and something the nature of which has not yet been satisfactorily explained: for to say that the pleasure we derive from them arises from a sense of the difficulty overcome in producing them, is not getting to the root of the question. The truth is, these men possessed genius, and we cannot contemplate the works of genius, of whatever kind or degree, without feeling an inward satisfaction at the possible powers and perfections of our common nature. Does this get any nearer to "the heart of the mystery," think you? B. Why, no!—I'm afraid not. And, to tell you the truth, I think it exceedingly immaterial, in all cases, and mischievous in many, to investigate very closely into the sources of our pleasure-at least, so long as we are capable of partaking in it. When we find ourselves no longer susceptible of enjoyment, from the sources whence we have been accustomed to derive it, it is at least excusable, and it may be beneficial, to enquire into the nature of our past pleasure, and endeavour to trace its spring. But it is time enough to begin to philosophize when we have ceased to feel; and I question whether we can feel and philosophize at the same time. A. By the bye, our time warns us, that we must cease either to feel or philosophize, for the present. We will, therefore, just take a glance at these tolerably good French copies, from Raphael's four celebrated and magnificent works, known by the name of the "Madonna de la Pesce," "the Spasimo"-the Holy Family called "the Pearl"-and "the Salutation." The originals are at pre sent in possession of the King of Spain, and these copies were made in Paris for the Duke of Wellington, when the pictures were there. There is a rawness about the colouring, and a hardness about the outlines, which take very much from the general effect; but the infinite grandeur and grace, and the miraculous expressions of the originals, are not ill preserved. At all events, for those who have not seen, or cannot see, the wonderful originals themselves, it is a great treat to be able to contemplate faithful copies of them, as the lover, in the absence of his mistress, delights to hang over her portrait. For power and splendour of general effect, the Spasimo is certainly the finest of these pictures; and perhaps it is the grandest of Raphael's works in oil, next to the Transfiguration. But for harmonious grace and majesty, the "Madonna de la Pesce" is not inferior to any thing in existence. We will now reluctantly take our leave of this delightful Exhibition; and as it would certainly be doing injustice to any modern works, to visit them with those splendid ones immediately in our recollection, we will defer seeing them till another and more appropriate opportunity. In the mean time, we may do well to take a look at the casts, &c. which Mr Day has lately brought from Rome, as there are very few of them, and they are of a character to fall in with our present impressions and feelings. Casts, &c. from Rome. A. I think you cannot gain a better idea of the peculiar character of each of these admirable works, Canova's Group of the Graces, and Michel Angelo's Statue of one of the Medici Family, from the Tomb at Florence, (for to my mind this statue is inferior to the more celebrated "Moses,") than by looking alternately from one to the other, and comparing and contrasting them together. The one breathes forth an air of simple and severe grandeur, which is in the highest degree appropriate and impressive; while the other is clothed in a halo of grace and tenderness, which seems to radiate from it, and blend itself with all things around. The Moses is doubtless an extraordinary work; but I cannot think that it quite de serves the reputation it bears. It seems to me to indicate more of phy. sical than moral power. This cast from a statue of Jonah is also highly curious and interesting, if, as is said, the original was done by Raphael. There is undoubtedly a considerable degree of expression in this work; enough to warrant the be lief of its proceeding from the hand of that wonderful artist, who could not touch out the branch of a tree, or a fold of drapery, without infus ing that quality into them. We will now part for the present, not without the hope, on my part, of our meeting again; at least if our doing so seems likely to afford you amusement. HALIDON HILL; A DRAMATIC SKETCH, FROM SCOTTISH HISTORY. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. EDINBURGH, CONSTABLE & CO. 1822. IT has been often said by critics and others, and, we think, truly, that if the great opprobrium of modern literature-the apparent decay of the dramatic art, notwithstanding the repeated attempts of men of great genius and name-was to be effaced by any living poet, it was by Sir Walter Scott. Profoundly learned in our national history, fertile beyond that of most other countries in subjects eminently fitted for the drama; gifted with a versatility of powers that has thrown the other poets and writers of his time comparatively into the shade; endowed with that universal knowledge of human character, however modified by habit, education, profession, prejudice, religion, or country, which has enabled him, not merely to describe human actions, but to represent human agents in the perfect verisimilitude of actual existence, with their distinctive passions, vices, frailties, foibles, follies, virtues, and excellencies; and intimately acquainted with the peculiar language in which the different ranks of men are accustomed to give expression to their feelings and thoughts with the most eloquent effect; it cannot surely be matter of surprise, 66 Halidon Hill; a Dramatic Sketch. that the public should have looked forward, with the most confident augury, to some such attempt as that on which we have now the pleasure of felicitating our readers. 66 don Hill," however, is a mere expeHaliriment, or feeling of his way, on the part of this highly-gifted man. is a Dramatic Sketch," in two acts; It and, though the author has as rigidly adhered to the unities of time, place, and action, as Lord Byron, enlightened by his new-found deference for Aristotle, could possibly have desired, he has positively declared that it is not meant for representation, and that, should any be made " to produce it in action, (as has happened in similar cases,) it shall be solely at the peril of those who make such an experiment." In a pretty long extract from Pinkerton, containing the description of the battle of Homildon Hill, which Sir Walter has given in his Preface, we discover, not only the germ of the plot, but many of the incidents -particularly the reconciliation of Swinton and Gordon, between whose respective houses a deadly feud had existed-the honour of knighthood conferred on the latter, at his own earnest request, by Swinton, immediately prior to the battle-and the Spartan devotion with which these brave knights afterwards rushed to combat and a glorious death-which the author has introduced in his drama, with such admirable effect. But, with infinite taste and judgment, he has transferred the scene of action from Homildon to Halidon Hill: "For this," says he, "there was an obvious reason, for who would again venture to introduce upon the scene the celebrated Hotspur, who commanded the English at the former battle? There are, however, several coincidences, which may reconcile even the severer antiquary to the substitution of Halidon Hill for Homildon. A Scottish army was defeated by the English on both occasions, and under nearly the same circumstances of address on the part of the victors, and mismanagement on that of the vanquished, for the English long-bow decided the day in both cases. In both cases, also, a Gordon was left on the field of battle; and at Halidon, as at Homil [July seems don, the Scots were commanded by house of Douglas." We are also inan ill-fated representative of the great formed, that "the tradition of the in a lineal descent, and to which the Swinton family, which still survives author has the honour to be related, avers, that the Swinton who fell at by Pinkerton) had slain Gordon's Homildon (in the manner narrated father; which," he adds, sufficient ground for adopting that circumstance into the following Dramatic Sketch, though it is rendered improbable by other authorities." So much seemed necessary to be premised, in order to give the reader a clear and distinct perception of what is to follow. Without further preface, we shall therefore proceed to view of the piece as our compressed lay before our readers as extended a limits will possibly admit; satisfied that, by following this course, we shall discharge our duty more acceptably, than if we presented to the public the most ingenious and elaborate discussion which even the Prince of Critics himself could write on the subject. The first scene-the northern side Since I left Scotland for the wars of Pa- And then the flower of all the Scottish Were known to me; and I, in my de- Not all unknown to them. lowers, Young like themselves, seem, like themselves, unpractis'd Look at their battle-rank. Prior. I cannot gaze on't with undazzled eye, So thick the rays dart back from shield and helmet, And sword and battle-axe, and spear and pennon. Sure 'tis a gallant show! The Bruce himself Hath often conquer'd at the head of fewer And worse appointed followers. Vipont. Ay, but 'twas Bruce that led them. Reverend Father, 'Tis not the falchion's weight decides a combat ; It is the strong and skilful hand that wields it. Ill fate, that we should lack the noble King, And all his champions now! Time call'd them not, For when I parted hence for Palestine, The brows of most were free from grizzled hair. Prior. Too true, alas! but well you know, in Scotland, Few hairs are silver'd underneath the hel recognizes the Templar, whom he greets with the most cordial welcome. De Vipont, however, remarks the sadly diminished number of Swinton's followers, (sixty spears,) who, when he had left Scotland for the Holy Land, had amounted to a thousand fighting men. The explanation of this reduction of power and force, as given by the gallant old patriot and soldier, (for, notwithstanding his full participation in the feelings and feuds of the time, he was both,) presents a remarkable picture of the lawless violence and disorder that prevailed to such a lamentable extent during those heroic and chivalrous ages. 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 be 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 leadA 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 In measures which the grey-hair'd minstrels sing, When they make maidens wecp. Vipont. Since thou dost weep, their Swinton. Templar, what think'st thou Compact of adamant, though waters flow from it? Firm hearts have moister eyes. They are aveng'd; I wept not till they were-till the proud Gordon Vipont. You are at feud, then, with Swinton. At deadly feud. Here in this Where the sire's quarrels descend upon the son, As due a part of his inheritance, 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. Vipont. You, with some threescore lances and the Gordon Leading a thousand followers. Swinton. You rate him far too low. Since you sought Palestine, He hath had grants of baronies and lordships In the far-distant North. A thousand horse His southern friends and vassals always number'd. Add Badenoch kerne, and horse from Dee and Spey, He'll count a thousand more.-And now, De Vipont, If the Boar-heads seem in your eyes less worthy, For lack of followers-seek yonder stan. dard LJuly The bounding Stag, with a brave host a- There the young Gordon makes his earli And pants to win his spurs. His father's As well as mine, thou wert-go, join his pennon, And grace him with thy presence. been the common friend of the Swin- Joins on this field the banner of the two the generous Knight, who gave up all, Leading and lordship, in a heathen land To fight a Christian soldier, 66 a pursuivant enters to summon the Knights to council." Swinton imhe should seem to mediately prepares to obey; but, lest -wake civil strife, or tempt the Gordon With aught that's like defiance, doffs his casque, and furls his pen non. Gordon, a mere youth, had never seen Swinton-the knight who had made him fatherless; and De between Gordon, bound by the laws Vipont, fearful of a sudden rencontre of that barbarous age, to revenge his father's murder, and the heroic but terrible Swinton, equally renowned for uncommon bravery and personal strength, and whose had been so often wielded with irrebloody mace" sistible destruction in the combat, by prudence and persuasion, to preproceeds before, in order, if possible, pare Gordon for the inevitable meeting at council, or to take measures to prevent the explosion of his filial but unfleshed courage. 66 The second scene opens with the Council of the Scottish Nobles and by the Regent Douglas. Here all is Chiefs, called, upon the emergency, confusion, jealousy, rivalry, and keen and vehement altercation, each man thinking, not of the formidable and disciplined enemy whom they were so soon to engage in the desperate feuds, antipathies, claims, and prestrife of battle, but of his own private tensions. To such a height was this |