versities as requiring a radical transformation, and even do not hesitate to call them the sources of the most general ignorance and immorality, do but repeat the very words of the English themselves, such as Knox, and Gibbon, especially of that son of earth (Terre Filius), who treated Oxford with the same severe and bitter censure, as an anonymous person among us did the school of Pforta. That under an entire change of cir cumstances, occasioned by a difference of times, any pertinacious adherence to ancient forms is always deserving of blame, is evident; but, at the same time, that, in an old building, where every thing hangs firm and fast together, the effect of any shaking of its walls, or disjointing of its parts, must be extremely doubtful, is a truth confirmed by experience, which, in most things, is the surest instructress. THE FUNERAL OF ELEANOR. A BALLAD. ELEANOR (commonly called the damsel of Britain) sole daughter of Geoffrey, Earl of Britain, and only sister and heir of Earl Arthur, was sent into England by her uncle, King John, and imprisoned in Bristol castle, for no other crime than her title to the crown; but that was sufficient to make her liberty both suspected and dangerous. In durance there she prolonged her miserable life until the year of our Lord 1241, which was the 25th of King Henry III. at which time she died a virgin, and lieth buried in the church of the Nunnery at Ambresbury, unto which Monastery she gave the Manour of Melkesham with its appurtenances. Sandford's Genealogical History of the Kings of England. A quiet knell the convent bell And quietly the moonlight fell On tower, and stream, and fold. When towards the tower a shepherd old A look of wonder cast, As by the stream, and near his fold, By pairs they came, the virgins all Upon that cloth in golden woof On a grey stone the bier is laid, Which soon that pall must hide ; And therein lies a royal maid Ah, who can tell her heavy years, How oft on Arthur's name she cried, When nought but echo's voice replied How oft she saw him, 'mid her dreams, Nor of a crown alone debarr'd But in the tyrant's jealous guard The horsemen train have laid her down And homeward straight to Bristow town At stated hour the virgins come The wondrous pile is gleaming nigh, Brought hither through the murky sky, The moon, that labour'd through the cloud, As their white arms the sable shroud Upon the coffin lift. No longer sinking, as before, It flapp'd and idly hung, But its full plaits extended o'er Toward the pall that shepherd old A look of sorrow cast, As down the stream, and by the fold, And now entomb'd, in lowly guise, 'Neath Ambersbury's floor, In holy peace for ever lies The saintly Eleanor. In Worcester's dome the tyrant king, Reclined by Severn's wave, Hears the stoled priests their anthem sing 30 long the vengeful demons sleep; Once more in furious mood they leap His princely son the sceptre sways: Distrust, and dread, and pale amaze, 'Neath Ambersbury's floor she lies: HALIDON HILL, BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.* THE day seems drawing to a close for dramatic composition and dramatic enjoyment. If the fair, the gay, and the gallant, who fill the seats of our theatres, have a whimsical taste, and capricious fancy-are much too wise, and by far too critical, to be readily pleased-it must be owned that they are seldom presented with aught but cold, timid, and correct productions; where there are few faults, and few excellencies, and little of the bold manly character, and fresh and glowing language, of our elder dramatists. Most of the higher poetical spirits of the age, one after another, have seceded from the stage in scorn or in pity; Southey, it is true, has remained silent; but Lord Byron speaks out with proud and undisguised contempt; and the poet of Halidon Hill says, that his dramatic sketch is in no particular either designed or calcufated for the stage, and that any attempt to produce it in action will be at the peril of those who make the experiment. A legion of lesser spirits have preceded or followed this defection of the higher powers; each lifting up his voice against being carted across the stage, and insulted in his last moments by dramatic executioners, and a critical and capricious crowd. They have found out a far safer and surer way to equitable judgment and fame, than trusting to the hazardous presentment of the characters they draw, by the heroes of the sock and buskin, and to the dubious and captious shout of the pit and the galleries. One cause of the unwillingness of authors to approach the public, through the limited avenue of the stage, is the necessity of chipping and shaping the story, and casting and drawing the characters, according to the will or the vanity of actors. The craving of each for an important and characteristic part is equal to the demand of the insubordinate spirits of Michael Scott for employment, while the monopolizing spirit of the favourite of the hour demands a part, which, like Aaron's rod, de vours all other inferior enchantments. Thus the dramatic poet has to proceed by rule and pattern; and the lets and incumbrances are so great and manifold, that the native powers of the English mind have not free exercise in dramatic composition. There are many lesser causes which combine to occasion the fall of the drama-the total scorn with which the town regards all superstitious beliefs, and supernatural influences, is not the least; even the Author of Waverley was obliged to find a wild Northumbrian nurse for his young citizen, Francis Osbaldistone, to elevate the youth to the level of romantic history. The town is a merry and a pleasant place; the region of wits, and parodists, and punsters; where amusement is wrung from the most obstinate words, and merriment from the most perverse appellations; and an innocent and useful name is hunted down through fifty wicked meanings, and pursued like the vizier's spouse into many strange transformations. All this is exceedingly delightful; but it is not the best way to prepare one for the natural, the superstitious, the romantic, and native beauties of the drama. When we look back, we are surprised at the multitude of dramatic miscarriages; a correct and a welltold story fails from the want of glow, animation, and original freshness of the characters and language; while others, seemingly possessed in an eminent degree of those rare and shining qualities, owe their oblivion to the want of a clear and obvious plot, and a regular succession of visible and well-connected action. That Halidon Hill is a native, heroic, and chivalrous drama, clear, brief, and moving in its story-full of pictures, living and breathing, and impressed with the stamp of those romantic and peculiar times, and expressed in language rich and felicitous, must be felt by the most obtuse intellect: yet we are not sure that its success would be great on the stage, if for the stage it had been ever designed. The beauties by which it charms and en * Halidon Hill, a dramatic Sketch, by Sir Walter Scott, Bart. 8vo. chains attention in the closet-those bright and innumerable glimpses of past times-those frequent allusions to ancient deeds and departed heroes the action of speech rather than of body, would be swallowed up in our immense theatres, where a play to the eye is wanted, rather than to the heart. The time of action equals, it is true, the wishes of the most limited critic; the place too, the foot of Halidon and its barren ascent, cannot be much more ample than the space from the farther side of the stage to the upper regions of the gallery; and the heroes who are called forth to triumph and to die, are native flesh and blood, who yet live in their descendants. It has all the claims which a dramatic poem can well have on a British audience; yet we wish it so well as to hope it will escape from the clutch of those who cut up narratives into quantities for the theatres. Is there no law to protect the most touching pathos, and chivalrous feelings, from profanation by inferior spirits? The transfer which the poet has avowedly made, of the incidents of the battle of Homildon to the Hill of Halidon, seems such a violation of authentic history as the remarkable similarity of those two disastrous battles can never excuse. It is dangerous to attempt this violent shifting of heroic deeds; the field of Bannockburn would never tell of any other victory than the one which has rendered it renowned; history lifts up her voice against it; the Hill of Homildon will never tell the story of the Hill of Halidon in return for this; nor the story of any other battle but its own. If it be necessary to describe the story of the poem, it may be done very briefly, for never perhaps did a drama involve fewer incidents. The period of time is the golden day of English and Scottish chivalry; the close of the adventurous and brilliant reign of Robert Bruce, and the commencement of the victorious career of the third Edward. The heroes are some of the most renowned and stirring spirits of England and Scotland; but the part on which the poet fixes the attention of his readers forms but a portion or episode of the battle. We shall embellish our description with some passages of the poem which will render the whole in telligible, and break the consistency of the tale as little as possible. The Scottish army, led by the principal nobility, appears on the summit of Halidon Hill; while the English, conducted by King Edward and SirJohn Chandos, occupy the plain below. The former, commanded by the Regent, amean and envious man, waste the precious moments of preparing for battle, in vain contention, and angry parleying for place; while the latter, headed by wise and warlike leaders, array themselves in secresy and silence, and place their archers in the front, to whose skill England owes so many of her victories. But the charm of the drama belongs not to kings and councillors; the titled and the great are but as lookers on, and form the mute and motionless audience to the conversation and deeds of Sir Alan Swinton and Sir Adam Gordon-two knights of the northern army. Swinton, a brave and approved warrior, who had fought and conquered with Bruce and with Douglas, places his pennon on the hill, and awaits the orders of the chief leaders. An old comrade in arms, Sir Symon Vipont, a Templar of renown, but who was a Scotchman before he was a Templar, advances and addresses him. 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 Look as if brought from off some Christ- Had bored their cuirasses! Their lives had 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 grey beards, every one is here, And here all should be-Scotland needs them all. 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, been Lost like their grandsires, in the bold de. fence 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 called the ready, Ay, and my fair-hair'd Will-the Gordon's wrath Devour'd my gallant issue. 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 thinned 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 chace together. Fought side by side,-and our first cause of strife, Woe to the pride of both, was but a light one. Vipont. 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; Not in this land, twixt Solway and Saint Abbs, Rages a bitterer feud than mine and theirs, The Swinton and the Gordon. (P. 24-29.) We have said, many of the chief beauties of the poem are of the retrospective kind-the conversation of Swinton and his friend justifies our assertion. The character of an ancient warrior has seldom been touched off with such masterly skill, or endowed with deeper claims on our regard and admiration. Unbroken by old agefirm in his affections-unshaken in his valour, sedate in his military ardour, and lofty in his sorrow, he stands amid the wreck and desolation of his house and his followers, ready to die in defence of his country. The interest which his early appearance claims |