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Gordon tenderly bewails the fate of his gallant leader, who, though life was ebbing fast, continued to listen with intense emotion to every sound and symptom of the battle, like the brave and chivalrous Wolfe, when mortally wounded on Heights of Abraham. Death, however, was not sweetened to Swinton, as to Wolfe, and we may add, to Moore, by the assurance that the arms of his country were victorious; -and he receives the dreadful but not unlooked-for intelligence, that "all is lost!"-His last words are finely characteristic:

Rashness, and cowardice, and secret treason,

Devoid of discipline, is madmen's strength, More fatal unto friends than enemies! I'm glad that these dim eyes shall see no more on't.

Let thy hand close them, Gordon--I will think

My fair-hair'd William renders me that office.

Gordon and De Vipont immediately rush on the English line, and are both made prisoners, the former being mortally wounded; and when Plantagenet, who immediately comes up, asks what he can do "to honour bravery even in an enemy?” Gordon proudly answers,

Nothing but this :

Let not base Baliol, with his touch or look,

Profane my corpse or Swinton's. I've some breath still,

Enough to say-Scotland-Elizabeth.

De Vipont, the Templar, alone survives; and when reproached by Edward for bearing arms against a Christian King, contrary to the vows of his order, magnanimously retorts,

I was a Scotsman ere I was a Templar.

"Halidon Hill" is inscribed to Joanna Baillie, "at whose instance the task was undertaken," as it should seem from the Advertisement, for the purpose of contributing to a miscellany projected by that celebrated lady; but, instead of being confined to a scene or two, as was intended, the work gradually swelled to the size of an independent publication."

In this powerful "Sketch" (if so it must be called,) we have met with little on which even the most malignant of our professional Zoili could fix his critical talons. The following is the only uncouth and cacophonous line in the whole work; we know not how the supplemental syllable escap

ed the nice and delicate ear of Sir Walter:

And thieving Annandale to see such misrule.

the Scottish line is thus described by The shower of arrows poured into Percy:

Darkens the air, and hides the sun from The thick volley

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Combine to ruin us; and our hot valour, ed it.

Our general opinion of the texture, management, and denouement of the plot, may be gathered from the tenor of our analysis; and those of our readers who have accompanied us thus far, will be able to judge whether the few observations we have yet to subjoin are justified by the complexion and merits of the performance under review. The character of Swinton is obviously a favourite with the author; to which circumstance we are probably indebted for the strong relief in which it is given, and the perfect verisimilitude which belongs to it. The stately, commanding figure, of the veteran warrior, whom, by the illusion of his art, the author has placed in veritable presentiment before us ;--his venerable age, superior prowess, and intuitive decision ;-the broils in which he had engaged, the misfortunes he had suffered, and the intrepid fortitude with which he sustained them,-together with that vigorous control of temper, not to be shaken even by unmerited contumely and insult ;-these qualities, grouped and embodied in one and the same character, render it morally impossible that we should not at once sympathize and admire. The inherent force of his character is finely illustrated in the effect produced upon Lord Gordon, by the first appearance of the man who had made him fatherless." He is overawed, and confesses himself conscious of a feeling of involuntary respect. In his youth, Sir Alan had but too deeply embarked in the stormy commotions of that rude and barbarous age: "But," as my Lord of Byron says,

But Time, which brings all beings to their level,

And sharp Adversity, will teach at last Man,—and, as we would hope,-perhaps

the devil,

That neither of their intellects are vast:

While youth's hot wishes in our red veins revel,

We know not this-the blood flows on too fast;

But as the torrent widens towards the

ocean,

Young Gordon is a chip of the same block with Swinton; differing from him only in degree, as the sapling differs from the gnarled oak, which the storms and tempests of ages have only rooted firmer and deeper in the soil. Inexperienced as a soidier, his last act of patriotic self-immolation proves that he was endowed with the hereditary valour of his race; while his whole conduct indicates a mind that had risen superior to the deepest and darkest prejudices of his age and country. Never, surely, was any thing more finely or beautifully imagined than the reply which he makes to the proffered generosity of the haughty and victorious Plantagenet.

What judgment that class of critics (a pretty large one, we presume,) who pronounce a verdict without the ceremony of a trial, and condemn, that they may get credit for the penetration and sagacity which should have led them to acquit, may condescend to "give out" on the dramatic effect of the "Sketch" before us, we will not be bold enough to conjecture: for our own parts, and, as far as we can trust to our feelings and our understanding-in this instance, perfectly in unison-we would say, that it appears to us to be of the very highest description, and, in this age of dramatic degeneracy, almost unique. And if there be any one who can read the Swinton's description of the entire desolation brought on his house and name by his feuds with the Gordon, or the death-scene where the young sprout and the venerable stem-the aged warrior and his youthful friend-lie side by side, the victims at once of jealousy and the most uncompromising devotion to their country's cause;-we say, if there be any one can read these emotion, we protest he must be without the most deep-felt composed of sterner stuff than we can boast of,--and, farther, that we do not envy him the possession of such happy insensibility! We could wish also, to dilate on the character of the brave Templar, De Vipont,

passages

but we must have done.-" Halidon Hill" will add to the fame even

We ponder deeply on each past emotion! of Sir Walter Scott!!!

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What shall I write?

WHAT SHALL I WRITE?

"It is a moral impossibility," said I, as I was sipping my chocolate, to live another day without writing. I must be in print”—and I looked half mournfully, and half rejoicingly, on the last Number of the Edinburgh Magazine, which lay on the chimney-piece. I took it up for the twentieth time-I looked over its lovely clear large print-I rung the bell, and the place of the chocolate pan was supplied by my neat ebony inkstand, and hot-pressed let ter-paper. To be in print, it is necessary to write-to write, it is necessary to have a subject; I bit my pen, played with my watch-chain, drew heads on the paper. the devil shall I write about?" "What

It is the most disagreeable thing in the world, when the imagination is galloping to the goal of undying fame, spurred on by the idea of future honour, and the imprimatur of Messrs Constable, to be retarded in our progress, by the impertinent realities of drawing forth, line after line, and sentence after sentence, and blotting out, time after time, our illdigested crudities, without being able to please even one's self. I was ready to give the thing up, and with it all my hopes and all my fears of literary praise or censure. I walked about the room-looked out of the window-wondered what ailed me--had nearly sent "my article" to Hades ;but here other considerations had interfered. I pictured to myself the rewards of literary labour, the veneration with which I should be looked upon, the more respectful bow, and more graceful move, with which my male and female acquaintances would strive to do honour to the "writer in The Edinburgh," then the astonishment, the half incredulous envy of my intimates. I thought of my triumph, when, sauntering up to some friend, I should stroke my chin, adjust my cravat-"Ah! how d'ye do, Will?-how are you?-seen the Magazines?-What d'ye think? -Tell you a secret-I have-hagive me a pinch of snuff-I-I write for The Edinburgh.'

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Rap, rap, rap Good Heaven! what demon thunders at the gate?" Mr C and Mr Scarlett, Sir,-"

66

[July

"Shew them in." "What d'ye think they entered. "Couldn't tell-writI'm doing?" I said to my friends as ing a Sonnet to Miss T's eyebrow, perhaps, or enditing an epistle ing-you're utterly wrong-I'm writto the widow?" "Hang your joking for The Edinburgh'-What say impossible," said Scarlett. "Thyself your Lordships?" "The thing is round, to fulfil my promise, when it shall see the article," and I turned struck me that my article was as yet that I had not written a word. Scarbut a thing of futurity, a mere idealett laughed, and C- ·looked " utterable things." Well, but lend ject-what shall I write about?me some assistance-give me a subhere have I been this hour and a-half ing my yellow paper to no mortal tormenting my goose-quill, and spoilpurpose, experiencing

66

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To which the mind resorts in chase of
The shifts and turns,
The expedients and inventions multiform,

terms,

Though apt, yet coy, and difficult to

win'

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which, though Cowper calls them pleasant, are pleasures, it seems, which only poets know; for I, in my prosaic labours, find but little pleasure in them. But come, now for Scarlett; "why, subjects are as plenanswer." "A subject, man!" said your tiful as twenty-penny nails. Write ings and experience will inspire you. on old bachelors, and your own feelWell, well, I see by the falling of likes you not: write on love, on the your critical eyebrow,' the subject propriety of courting widows-or"— man," I returned, interrupting his "This is no answer, thou unfeeling infernal prattle; excellent, fruitful subject, becoming "I want a good, demonstrate." "Be patient, most exsuch a Magazine; speak, pronounce, cellent Scriblerus," cried C--; “you require much-a good subject." Suppose we say On the moral duties of ject we will furnish you with, when unmarried men.' An excellent subthe good one is digested; and as for the fruitful subject, write An Essay on Hot-houses,' in imitation of Semple's 'On Gardens.' Are you answered ?" "Or suppose, as you keep a diary," added Scarlett, " you give some ex

tracts from it; they will no doubt be edifying in the extreme. Here it is," he continued, seizing, vi et armis, on my red Morocco-covered journal."Zounds! here's my own name; I have at least a right to see this," and be read on

"Wednesday 3d. Rode out with Scarlett-went three miles at an easy canter-thought I was improving in horsemanship-lost my stirrup, and swung over;-as I was falling, caught hold of S- 's head, and knocked off his hat. Second thought-thought I was not improving. Scarlett grumbled, and said my saddle looked like a mule. Didn't take-Mem. To ask Whistlecraft what he meant-" "Bravo! excellent! this will do; you need no other subject," roared both my friends; "so good-morning: we shall see you to-night at Lellon's," and so they left me to my meditations. They are two excellent fellows, and I know none that I prefer to them, or that have more good qualities. C is such a man as one would wish to call a friend. Warm hearted and cool headed, the impetuosities of his genius are held in due subjection by the clearness of his judgment. Though somewhat reserved in company, it is only needful to overcome his backwardness, to be delighted and surprised by his conversation. To a fund of good sense and correct ideas, called into constant exertion by acute and diligent observation, he adds a facility of aptness and allusion which is astonishing-the fruit of a deep acquaintance with, and recollection of the beauties of the best writers in every department of literature. A mong our early authors in particular, (that wide, and, till late, neglected field of research and pleasure), he is, in the most literal sense of the phrase, "at home." Familiar with their times, their manners, their acquisitions in learning and science, he enters into their feelings with a fellowship and congeniality of sentiment, unknown to a mere modern man. The result of his studies and acquirements is, that whatever subject he handles, he is always himself; having always his treasures at command, he can convert them to any use he pleases, and clothes his thoughts in colours, which set off

their native beauties to still greater advantage. Over whatever he writes is spread a bright gleam of intelligence, penetrating with acuteness resembling intuition into the causes of events and phenomena, and seizing with inconceivable rapidity on the links of a chain of reasoning, which astonishes while it convinces. His writings are the conclusions of frequent examination and deep research, and everywhere show the masterly and delicate hand of a scholar and a gentleman.

Will Scarlett is a different, not opposite, character. Younger than C- and without so great a com-, mand over himself, his inclinations not seldom get the upper hand of his discretion. More formed for society, he possesses far more general attraction than his friend. Naturally gay, he brings mirth and cheerfulness with him, and is therefore. every where a welcome visitor. But this is merely the outward ornament that covers the nobler stuff within ; for his intellectual powers make him no less admired among his studious associates, than his handsome person (of which, by the way, I imagine Will is by no means insensible,) and conversational talents among the ladies and his lighter acquaintances.

I dwell with peculiar delight upon the recollection of the dinner I had with C. It was the first time I had been quietly seated in conversation with him; and I had for some time previous enjoyed the anticipation of the feast. C, Scarlett, and myself, formed the whole of the company; and with those two I enjoyed ten times the pleasure which I have ever felt in large and formal parties. The room was an old-fashioned apartment, with carved oak wainscoating, blackened with age; a blazing fire roared up the chimney, forming a pleasant contrast to the howling of the wind without, (for it was a dull November night). What real comfortable pleasure it was, after dinner, to sit by the hearth, and, while we discoursed, to sip our host's port, while the rich rough flavour of the Falernian was reasoned by the genuine attic of C's conversation! It was impossible not to think of the "dissolve frigus," &c. of Horace. These are the delightful hours, that,

like good wine, charm not only in present enjoyment, but leave a flavour behind them-hours that we recur to again and again, with unalloyed pleasure. It is in reminiscences like these that we feel the full force of the poet's words,

"Hoc est

Vivere bis, vitâ posse priore frui-" Over the chimney-piece hung a portrait of old Izaak Watson*; and it does one good to contemplate his countenance, and compare the free, open-hearted, hospitable character of the frank old Angler, with the precise, cold-blooded generation of everyday beings that swarm around us mere motes in the sunshine" fruges consumere nati." Let wits talk as they like about a rod, with a fish at one end, and a fool at the other; the idea that a man like this thought such an amusement not unworthy of devoting his leisure to, ought at least to establish a title to respect for all anglers, and for an art itself, which, however men's taste may differ, has been the occasion of a work that every one, to whom the expression of goodness of feeling, and generosity of disposition, and purity and chastity of style, are sources of pleasure, will read with delight and advantage to himself, and feelings of admiration and esteem towards the author.

But, in the name of all the Nine, where am I running? or what am I about? Digression upon digressionfriends dinners-Horace-Walton -and anglers! Restrain yourself, my good Sir, or I would not give a fillip for your chance of seeing your

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self in the types of Messrs Ruthven. Why, the thing is a mere digression altogether, (and perhaps many of us, if we examined, might find the occupations of the greater part of our lives digressions,) and my time is expired-my paper is full-and my article is written before I have found an answer to my question-" What shall I write ?" LAMIA.

THE LITERARY LEGACY. No. VII.

MR EDITOR,

I REALLY cannot express myself in language sufficiently grateful for your kindness unto me, and therefore decline making the attempt; but in order that you may be enabled to ascertain how the inner man was affected, when I felt myself, through the medium of your gentlemanly influence, standing, as it were, like Saul amongst the people, I flew to my escritoir, and dismissed that lying old proverb from my collection," Little doth the poor man good, and as little he gets."

I do assure you, Sir, that the appointment has added a full inch to my altitude. Consul to the BlueStocking Club of our Scotch Metropolis, is an honour that none of my family ever presumed to aim at; and though I certainly feel diffident of my abilities, an ailment that all ingenious young men complain of, when called to officiate in public, yet can I safely lay my hand on my heart and declare, that there is not an individual in these realms more sincerely attached to the fair sisterhood than myself, ergo, none more deserving of its confidence. I am quite delighted with the costume which their ladyships have commanded me to assume in public. True blue hose with scarlet gussets-blessed be the fingers that knitted them! and the plaid too, a real Stuart-the dear tartan that puts my blood up, when I ponder on the past, and compels me to exclaim, "Would to God I had been a man in the year Forty-five.” May I have grace, Mr Editor, to wear it as becomes my station! Your valuable present, my dear Sir, in return, I presume, for the small sample of Mrs Connel's loving kindness,

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