; proper mood tic of the rhetoric-poetic manner; but Vents itself freely ; since no part is mine every schoolboy sings it, and I sup- of praise pertaining to the great in arms. pose so does the reader, else my pen Act 4. should have whistled it off upon pa- Norval's first reply in the above per as the model of heroi-romantic is pure poetry; his second, mere rhetragedy. toric, particularly to be seen in the The conversation also which en- sounding close of the last line. Glegages the dramatis persone in this nalvon, indeed, sometimes favours us play, is of that mixed kind, where with a rush or two of dramatic torartificial grandeur of diction is per- rent, but it quickly evaporates into petually struggling with downright declamatory froth, or subsides into poetry. Ex. gr. limpid poesy. Enter Norval. But these two latter heretical sects Glenalvon. His port I love; he's in a of the drama, scil. the dramatic rhetoric and the rhetoric-poetic, are To chide the thunder, if at him it roar'd. scarcely to be enumerated as dis (Asidc.) tinct schools; they are rather the Has Norval seen the troops ? gradations by which the first school Norval. The setting sun vanishes into the second, and the seWith yellow radiance lighten'd all the vale ; And as the warriors moved, each polish'à cond into the third. The radically helm, dissimilar systems of tragedism, are Corslet, or spear, glanced back his gilded those into which I first divided our beams : national drama, scil. the dramaticThe hill they climb’d, and halting at its proper, the rhetoric, and the poetic top, pure. In the course of this letter, I Of more than mortal size, tow'ring they have illustrated, both by argument seem'd and example, the different principles An host angelic, clad in burning arms. Glen. Thou talk’st it well; no leader of systems; and if the reader ask me of composition which governed these cui bono ?-I will answer the reader In sounds more lofty speaks of glorious war. Nor. If I shall e'er acquire a leader's by desiring the reader to read my letter over again. God be with ye, name, My speech will be less ardent. Novelty Gentlemen. Now prompts my tongue, and youthful ad. John LACY. miration our host SONNET WRITTEN ON SEEING A GREEK AT VAUXHALL. Still he beheld nor mingled with the throng, Childe Harold. For scenes like these a sympathy within; And thou dost turn thee from the restless din And gaze around thee with unquiet eye, As if the music and light revelry Which throb and strive for liberty and right, And every tranquil vale and giant height, Where the blue sky hangs smilingly above ELEGIAC STANZAS, Written by an Officer long resident in India, on his return to England. a a 1. The fair in form, the pure in mind, Where all are strange, and none are kind; That pants, that struggles for repose: 2. That leaves no trace on memory's page : Some relic of a former age. Where stranger-voices mock my ear; 3. And I had fears were all too true: And what have I with life to do ! I may not, darę not, cast away; 4. Whose grassy tombs my sorrows steep; Whose very loss 'tis sweet to weep; With none to chide, to hear, to see : 5. To hold communion with the dead; Where fancy's softest dreams are shed. I hear each spirit's melting sigh; 6. The lamp of life burns feebly now,- And smooth my cold and dewy brow. Nor stone, nor monumental cross, Who sigh’d for gold, and found it dross. SIR HUGH HERON. "And he went forth, him alone, His knife was tint,-his sheath was ta'en, WHEN I had gathered from many lips the scattered and varying portions of this little wild and simple story, I sat down, as has ever been my way, on the spot where it befel, and proceeded to compare tale and place together, for the purpose of making the present interpret the past, and aid me in telling a clear and consistent story. An old man, a kind of district historian, accompanied me, and it required no small persuasion to induce him to visit a place where he acknowledged he seldom willingly went. His looks saddened down by the way, and there was something of awe in the manner in which he stood on the summit of a steep hill, and holding out his hand towards a valley and lake at our feet,-said, "There-there is the home of the ancient name of Heron,—and there the deed was done, which made so many cheeks pale." We seated ourselves on the ground,—and it seemed his wish to allow me to look my fill on vale and lake, before he proceeded to violate the repose of a scene so full of loveliness, by touching on a tale of treachery and blood. With treachery and with blood, no one who looked with me upon the place would have believed it associated. It was, indeed, a sweet and romantic nook,—such a one in which tradition says, and tradition is sometimes malicious,-the priesthood of the Romish church loved to erect their altars, and set up their carved images, and collect the riches of the earth. The valley was a good arrowflight across, the sides sloped up into hills covered with verdure as soft, and, by the nibbling of sheep, as short as the down of velvet ;-here and there a stray garden flower,and here and there, a plum or a wild apple tree contrived to struggle for existence, and told with the return of spring the story of the anSEPT. 1823. Sir Graeme and Sir Gray Steil. cient glory of the place. In the bosom lay a lake, deep, and cool, and so clear, that, without seeing the bottom, which the peasants placed at the distance of many a fathom, you might see the whole shaggy outline of the pastoral hills reflected quietly on its bosom. Many green shrubs bearing fruit or flower flourished along the water-edge,-and the chafing of the lake freaked its borders into innumerable little nooks and tongues, where the wild ducks, young -an orange tawny brood,-moved, half seen, half hid, among the water grass and the broad leaves of the lake lily. The flocks moved to and fro on the valley-side,-a stray deer looked timorously down from a woody shelf above,-while high o'erhead on the summit of a cliff, where the ancient gods of the land were once worshipped, sat a pair of black eagles pruning their wings, and meditating a flight to remote pastures for food for their young. Their shadows and mine lay scattered along the quiet and scarce moving waters. Eastward, the vale expanded, and then, suddenly closing, allowed scarce room for a small clear stream to pour from the lake down a deep and woody ravine, from which it escaped into a beautiful bay, shaped out like a crescent from the mainland. Between two green and conical hills, covered half way to the summits with natural wood, which seemed never to have felt the axe, I saw the eastern sea, bright with the morning sun, and agitated by a gentle wind and the coming tide. The hills stood so close together that I could only see a long and narrow vista of ocean, with the waves leaping and rolling,-but I heard the chafing of the waters against cliff and promontory, and that kind of hollow and mournful sound which waves raise when they fall on a rocky and a caverned shore. rocky Of man's habitation, or handy work, I could see no trace; and I said to my companion, "Where is the hall of the Herons ?-where is the chapel of our lady?-where is the tower of the lake?-I hear of them in tale and in song, and their foundations seem indeed to have had no securer resting place than what vagrant verse and varying story give." "Alas!" said the old man, " to me the vale presents more vivid images of ancient glory, and there are marks of the name and hand of Heron, which nothing may efface, though the winds and storms of many years have passed over them." And he arose, and, leaning on my arm, descended with slow and hesitating steps to a projecting ledge of rock which shot forward into the valley, and, pointing to a gray mass below, said," That is the vaulted hall of the Herons." I looked more intently, and saw the remains of a strong tower, its roof of massy stone had resisted rain and storm, and men's spirit of destruction for centuries, and a thousand slender trees, and crawling shrubs, and blossoming flowers, streamed out from every joint, opening even from the top of the tower down to the water edge. "There," said my companion, "is the tower of Sir Hugh Heron; to you it may seem nothing but a heap of rock and rubbish,-but to me every foot length of ground, and every piece of jointed stone, and every flower and fruit-tree, utter tale and history. My eyes are old;-but you may see the flight of broad steps descending from the tower gate to the lake, they are covered almost with that bush of trailing bramble. From the foot of the stair a pavement of solid stone, not broader than for a man and boy to walk abreast, shot into the bosom of the lake, and led to the tower, which tradition says was a place of refuge in times of feudal commotion and open war. The tower of the lake has been gradually swallowed up by the waters. Over its cope stone many fathoms of water roll now, but I have heard my father say, that when he was a boy it was still visible above the lake; now the flood has risen against the valley, and that castle, though once on a cliff where the eagle would have chosen to build, has now its very threshold washed by the waves when the wind puts them in motion." The old man again leaned upon me, and I was conducted along a kind of winding way to the summit of another rock, towards the eastern end of the valley. "There," said he, stands Hugh Heron's arm-chair;-a man cannot sit in it now without wetting his feet in the lake,-it once overlooked it as high as the top of yon ash tree,-below it lay the Cave of Repentance,-but ancient sanctity, and frequent prayers, and the presence of holy relics, could not save it from the changes of nature, and the lake fills it now, and will for ever. But here is an image which the rudest hind respects;" and he pointed out on the face of the perpendicular rock beside us, the shape of a cross cut deep and sharp in the stone,while before it knelt the figure of an armed man,-his sword and helmet, in which seemed a heron plume, lay at his knees; his face was turned to the earth, and his hands were clasped in agony. Many wild flowers, and more particularly the honeysuckle, then forming for bloom, showered themselves down over the face of the crag, and crawled along the ground at our feet. "That," said my companion, "is the figure of Hugh Heron, and here it is said he came forth before the sun, and continued on his knees till the hunter was on the hill. Now look down the valley,-ye may see the ruins among the wild plum-trees and briers yet, there stood the chapel of our lady,-it was small,-but it was wondrous fair, and shaped by man's piety and perseverance out of the solid rock. Many pilgrims came and blessed it;-death-bed sorrows, and the remorse of old age, endowed it largely, and made it the richest shrine in all the north country. It was on the floor of that chapel that Hugh the Heron burnt a fire of cinnamon for seven years beside the body of the lady he loved, and our forefathers believed, that at the end of the seventh year the body was borne away,-and the breath of living life breathed over it, and that it became a ministering spirit." My old companion looked me stedfastly in the face, shook his head, and, after a short silence, said, "Ye may smile, for it is the fashion of the youth of this age to give cre dence to nothing, and ye may call me superstitious,-which may be I am,-yet there's more matter for marvelling and sorrow about this place than for smiling and mirth." I assured my gray-headed friend that I had too deep a sympathy with all things which tradition embalmed, and she never embalmed ought but the purest and the best,-to make them matters for mirth. It was my chief wish to tell the world the story of Hugh Heron in strict accordance with popular belief, and to reflect back to the people a distinct image of provincial history. For this purpose, I had composed in a rude manner the tale in my own mind; I would proceed to relate it to him, with the hope that where other men's memories had failed, his would be found perfect, and that his knowledge of all the varieties of the legend might enable me to infuse more of character and incident into the simple narrative. The old man smiled and shook his head,-and I proceeded at his request to whisper my version in his ear;-he seemed to have a dread of open speech in a place where to him every rock and stone breathed the history of the house of Heron: "During the wars of the two roses, for traditional story has ever imperfect dates, there lived a young knight, named Sir Hugh Heron, and his castle stood in a small valley which bore his family name. Before he was eighteen, personal beauty and deeds of arms made him talked of from Tweed to Trent. His father had perished in battle with the Scots when Lord Maxwell wasted Cumberland, and left him to the love of his mother, a daughter of the noble house of Dacre, who caused him to be trained to arms, and to all chivalrous exercises. He accompanied Lord Howard, and assisted in ravaging the frontier of Scotland; and when, on his return, he was drawn into an ambush by the Johnstones and Carlyles on the river Eden, he fought with such desperation, that the Laird of Lochwood returned to Scotland with but ten followers, and Hugh Heron made his way home with only seven." "I have stood on the spot where that fierce skirmish happened," said my old friend," and a sweet little corner of border earth it is,-a place for the pastime of children and the sport of fairies. It is called the fighting fold to this very day, and one who has held the plough on the spot, for graves, and fairy rings, and holy knolls, and all, are ploughed now,-told me that spear points, and spurs, and arrowheads, are turned up by the share.” "One of the seven companions of Hugh Heron in this adventure," I resumed, "was a youth of his own blood, and bearing his own name, several years older, and neither so fair in person, nor so gifted in mind, but bold and enterprizing, a seeker of perils, and exceedingly skilful with the sword and bow. The peasantry who sought to distinguish the kinsmen by some descriptive to-name, called the latter Aymer the Black, and the former Hugh the Fair,-and some scrupled not to say that their hearts and minds corresponded with the colours which described their persons. If they were companions in the battle-field, they were also comrades in the chase,-and their hawks had the fairest and the boldest flight, their dogs the fleetest feet and the surest mouth,—and their arrows flew more sharp and sure than any in Cumberland, though it was the dwelling of the Howards, and Dacres, and Lowthers, and Graemes." "Have you ever heard," said my old friend," that they drew a bow or flew a hawk against one of the wild herons of their native lake? No, no; none that bore the name would ever do that;—they left the noble and beautiful birds to breed and bring forth by the borders of the lake;there was a curse denounced against the house of Heron, if they rifled a nest or harmed but a feather of their namesake bird;-even the plumes of the heron, which waved above their helmets in battle, were those shed from the bird's wing,-and the merit of the plume was the more, if it happened to be shed when the fowl flew, and was caught before it reached the ground. I have seen myself the wild herons of the lake seated like a flock of doves on the ruins of that old castle, and they drooped their wings, and laid their bills on their breasts, and sat so grey and motionless, that ye would have thought |