The Sun.
London, England, 1827-01-31 00:00:00

WEDNESDAY EVENING, JANUARY 31, 1827.

No. 10,731.

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LITERATURE.

ELIZABETH DE BRUCE.--By the Author of CLAN-ALBIN,
in three volumes.—BLAcxwooo, Edinburgh ; and CADELT.,
Leaden-1827.
We know not who the author of Clan-Albin may be,
but in Elizabeth de Bruce he has produced a work which
would do honour even to the " Great Unknown" himself.
We have seldom sat down with more doubt, and have
never risen with more delight from the perusal of a
romantic story. The scene is laid partly in Scotland and
partly in Ireland—breathing all the romanticity of the one
mid the picturesque beauty of the other. The characters
are as varied as their names, and the pulse of feeling
throughout beats with feverish interest—now excited and
now subdued only to rise with more overwhelming emotion
and intense sensibility. The time too when the action
commences was pregnant with tragic deeds—warm with
the recollection of burning wrongs and stained with the
perpetration of acts, which in one language obtained the
appellation of bloody crimes—in another the retribution of
patriotic revenge, exulting in its own sacrifice, so that it
ensured the destruction of its victim. Our author has
drawn his characters with a masterly hand, and struck
some of them off with singular spirit and originality—true to
the secret workings of nature in her most powerful, though
erratic mood. Rongemantle, another Meg Merrilies, is yet
original, and stands out from the canvas with masculine
strength, but feminine fidelity of purpose, and the most
chivalrous devotion of heart. The character of the heroine
is drawn with great truth to nature, blended with an ir-
risistibly increasing interest in all she does—in all she feels
—till the heart often melts into tenderness at her affecting
situation, and gentle but exalted spirit. The style, though
very free and bold, is occasionally heavy, especially to an
English reader, who flags over the dulness of Scotticisms,
however reconciled to such foreign homeness of phrase by,
the fascination of the Scotch Novels. Had the work be-
fore us contained far less of this diluting material, it would
be improved in a twofold proportion, while its genuine
interest would be much relieved by the absence of some
hundred pages of common life, even though strongly cha-
racteristic of Scottish manners and national as well as inch-

vidual singularity. But though the author has, from a
laudable ambition at completeness, thus lengthened the
picture beyond the verge of concentrated interest, he has,
nevertheless, done ample justice to every prominent as
well as subordinate character. Some people may quarrel
with abrupt description and vicissitude of circumstance, but
the face of nature is made up of the one, and human character
is influenced, if not fashioned by the other. We cannot
behold the mountain without the contrast of the rale, and
he who would picture life as it is, must take his scenes as
they rise—he must take—

The boundless store
Of charms which nature to her votary yields—
The warbling woodland—the resounding chore,
The pomp of groves, and garniture 01 fields ;
and all these are pressed into the service by our author
with a poet's sensibility keenly alive to their varied beauty,
and conscious how well they harmonise with the deep
pathos and romantic feelings of his strongly marked cha-
racters. There are many touches of nature, and much
powerful writing in this work, not less creditable to the
author's heart than honourable to his genius. The story—
but we cannot afford space for an abstract—is sustained
with masterly tact; and the author's imagination is not
more felicitous than his judgment is correct. We have
made copious extracts, but the flowers culled are trifling,
compared to the luxuriant field whence they are selected.
Let the reader judge of their fragrance by the beauty of
the sample.

The following description of an irregular old mansion,
situated on the brink of the winding Oran, in the West of
Scotland, is picturesque and rural. It is the family seat
of Grahame of Monkshaugh, the uncle of Wolfe Grahame,
the military hero of the work :
" The mansion; built at various dates, was rambling, irregular,
and Janns-faced, perhaps inconvenient. But as it rises before us
now, through the softening vista of years, with its venerable grey
roof, steep gables broken into corbie-steps, awkward chimneys,
sentry-box towerlets, out-shots and in-shots, :and adjuncts of all
forms, wings and wingleta hastily clapped to in every direction,
when the successive ladies of Monkshaugh got additions to their
families, or the lairds an increase to their wealth ;—as we look
back on it, we think it might have won even a stranger's admira-
tion, especially when seen in broken glimpses through those stately
groves of elm and chestnut, planted so :lose that they diffused, '
when in full leaf, an air of almost monastic gloom around the
good old honee. This was not Mt within however, for there were
several rooms in Monkshaugh's dwelling, looking back to the river
aoArn
proprietors,
oP ft hi no tooeft
thgaaeltnmeddl
yeml light, cheerful,
Continuousd
moree oivne a,ntdmha
veooerf aie:igiedNilsr,ohoefnni
the
shhediffdiffused
proportions.
shelter
rtes. this
he
moat flourishing colony of rooks in the whole strati]. In spring
indeed, when those black-robed gentry are so clamorous about
cjectments and marriage-settlements, the cawing around the old
house became perfectly deafening and intolerable ; but one would
have mired it too; and then one needed only to steal up into
the dean among the birch and broom, or down to the river's edge
andTlyto h hazelt
elowbushes,
m of those
woo: tocharm
instantlyte
farneieoongf
ththeerolookweryspdriena,dinlig alleyrgo
wooilland warblers who so quietly arrange all their love affairs with
a sweat song.

Elizabeth was the grandchild of O'Connor of the NVest,
and wife of Wolfe Graham ;—but her birth and fortunes
were as unknown to herself as the modesty of her na-
ture and the exuberant goodness of her heart. She was
nurtured with the eagles, and sought communion with
nature in her charmed haunts:—
" The succeeding period was a happy interval in the life of
Elizabeth ; and yet nothing occurred which a stranger could have
noted as memorable. She had her needlework, her lonely rambles
among the hills, and her social visits to the hamlet, the marvels of
sad Fugal, who was the Ainnehaussen of the district, and the old
songs and legends of Monica, in themselves a mine of enjoyment.
She had lost her best musical instrument ; but she retained all her
musical capacities. Music is said to be a social art—and in
one sense it is so; hut there is music which is neither very
social, nor at all under the dominion of art—a gift of nature, a
passion, a feeling, solitary, heartfelt, the charmed soul hanging on
the murmurs of the lip as the rose is fabled to listen to the song
of the nightingale. Elizabeth's musical tastes, which made so
much of the enjoyment of her solitary life, were of Rousseau's
third order. Her soul was instinct with melody—the murmurs
of her infancy were musical, and the wild warbling of her dreams
more touching than her most finished song. To her ear
all
nature was one mighty instrument, of a scale infinitely graduated
but all attuned to harmony. To listen was to enjoy—from the
hoarse breaking of the waves on the shore to the tingle of the
summer rill—from the burst and swell and long-rolling peal of
the thunder :cloud, to the faint winter churn of the red-breast.
Thus, though the inexplicable order, or caprice of the family agent
had somewhat abridged one
source of enjoyment, it could not
attaint her hereditary and indefeasible right to nature's gift. Her
instruments were away; but she could still, in the deep twilight
of her chamber, listen, soothed or rapt, to those viewless harps
of a thousand strings sounding in the leafless woods below. But
those purely natural strains, the articulate breathings of passion
and sensibility, speaking a unitvheiersanlmlasnia " language, be it in the glow-
ing song of the Hindoo girl, or the wild lament of the high-
land maid,—and above all,
married to immortal
verse," claimed a loftier place in her musical associations, and
ministered delight to a higher class of feelings."
A solitary and unclaimed, but nevertheless a fair and a happy
ebild,—a solitary,
unregarded, but, till now, alight-hearted and
happy girl, the past life of Elizabeth de Bruce had been one long
midsummer night's dream.. She bad grown up in solitude and
freedom, her young imagination is the clouds, but her heart on
the dear green earth, finding, in the thousand forms of loveliness

and delight scattered in her lonely path, objects to excite her na-
tural sensibility, and in the recollection that all neglected as her
existence had been, she was not the less a de Bruce, enough to
nourish in her mind the self-respect and graceful pride of true
nobility : till Wolfe Grahame came, and a brighter heaven and a
yet greener earth unfolded, and the pride of birth was forgotten in
the dearer pride of affection ; for to be his was happier than
even her fondest brightest dreams, and now—she was his.'
And the following is a description of the tower where
she imbibed the freshness of the breeze, and looked rotmd
on the romantic scenery so dear to love and 'Wolfe
Grahame :
Steep and high where the mountain opened its hollow bosom
at the head of the dean, there started sheer up a bluff promontory
called by the country people " The Pech's Mount," from its
artificial appearance. A narrow grassy isthmus connected this
abrupt promontory with the hills behind; and on it, perched like
an eagle's nest dallying with the storm, rose the tower of Ernes-
Craig. The mountains' sides closed darkly upon the tower ;
and yet in its height it was seen afar off in all directions
predominating over the surrounding country, like the spirit of
fallen chivalry. Ernescraig Tower and the surrounding scenery
had been fancifully, and not unaptly compared to the bird from
whence it took its name—to a falcon on the swoop, ready to
pounce on its prey.'
Elizabeth had been privately wedded to Wolfe Grahame,
who being ordered to join his regiment in Ireland—en-
counters old O'Connor, a fugitive--an exile seeking to
elude the close hunt of his pursuers, attended by the trusty
Rougemantle, who thus describes him as he is hastily taking
some refreshment at midnight, on a tomb-stone, in a lonely
church-yard :
" Six feet two in his shoes—and they were seven boys of thorn,
cones of the ould O'Connor; and Aileen the youngest, and the
faired, and the flower, and the curse :—and the sea got its part,
and the swoord got its part, and the grief as ever, had its own
double portion. But did I not guide him well?—Ay, and the
blood will flow deeper, ere the axe which Fitzmaurice is whetting,
fall on the proud neck of O'Connor !"
This new riddle was whispered through clenched teeth, in a
tone of almost insane energy ; and before Wolfe could reply,
Rouge-mantle was clambering over the grave-stones and rocks, on
her way to the little inn, for such spoils from Grahame's port-
manteau as might be substituted for the ill-boding green garb
worn by the fugitive.
The moon had almost sunk, the stars gleamed less vividly, and
a faint pale streak of dawn was visible in the direction of the An-
trim mountains. The fugitive gazed darkly in the direction of
his country, with that yearning hopeless gaze of which only the
exile knows all the bitterness; and stretched out his longing arms
as if to clasp it to his heart.
" This is folly," said he, assuming a lighter tone than he had
yet used. " I could play the woman here :" be slipped his arm
through Grahame's. " Poor country !—a sadder heart never
left thee,—a darker shadow never lowered over thee, since the
hoar when thy glorious green head first rose in pride above the
waters, and thy God blessed thee, and saw that l,is work svaa
good !—You think me a very fool, de Bruce, but that poor Ire-
land is my country. In this hour it is more—the birth-place
and the grave of noble hopes; and, in the narrow space between
them, what of toil, and suffering, and grief, and remorse, are hud-
dled !—I cannot tell you my story to-night but I wish, it were your
destiny to carry your arms elsewhere."
As he talked, the sullen roll of a single cannon-shot swung
over the waters of the channel. He made a slight agitated
movement, the nervous movement of one who has been long
bunted, but is at laat under no necessity of exercising sel
command.

" 'Tis the Carrickfergus signal gun," said 'Wolfe. "On a
still night the booming of the evening gun may be heard on
this coast."

" 'Tie to me the last voice of Ireland !" said the exile.

" The Bride Aileen" is the daughter of O'Connor, and
mother of Elizabeth, who is repeating the following ver-
ses when her supposed father, Lord Bruce, a lunatic, re-
siding then in the sanctuary at Edinburgh, glides away
from his keeper, and listens to the song. Aileen was his
betrothed bride, but torn from him almost at the altar.

THE BRIDE AILEEN.
" There's mirth around O'Connor's board,
And bridal banqueting ;
The wine-cup passed from Dame to Lord
Kissed by rose-lipped Aileen :
The young Aileen, the gay Aileen,
The bright, the blest, the Bride Aileen.
soft strains of Erin's minstrelsy
Were floating rich between,
And bashful joy rose in the eye
Of the young Bride Aileen.
The young Aileen, the proud Aileen,
The blest, the bright, the Bride Aileen !
The grey O'Connor's darling girl,
Flower of his house of pride,
Her faith plights to the Northern Earl,
A young and blissful bride!--
The young Aileen, the proud Aileen,
The blest, the bright, the Bride Aileen !

'Twits wo to leave O'Connor's halls ;
And deep the wo she proves ;
Her heart clings to the dear grey walls,
But she follows him she loves.
The young Aileen, the seft Aileen,
The bright, the blest, the Bride Aileen.
Say what may mean the rushing wail,
That wild shriek thrilling keen,
The blood-shower on the broidered veil
Of the pale bride Aileen ?
Wo for Aileen ! the young Aileen ;
The loved, the doomed, the lost Aileen !"
The scene changes to Ireland. Aileen had been con-
strained to marry Lord Montegle, but she never coha-
bited with him. She was adored by the people, and was
at present going to intercede for the life of a rebel. It
chanced that Grahame was in the same mail coach which
conveyed her. They stopped at an Inn, on the walls of
which the head of the rebel she meant to say; was stuck
up. The following sketch is very powerful--a picture for
a painter in his most horrible mood :
" Any business done to-day?" said the sergeant, glancing his
eyes upwards at the blazing range of large windows where the
Commission now sat.

The person thus interrogated without saying one word, took
a torch from the soldier who stood next him, and hared its swart
rays upwards over a ghastly object stuck under the centre window
of the court-room, over the spiked arch-way of the open porch of
St. Peter's Keys. It was a human head, blackened and purpled,
the eyes starting from their sockets, the muscles of the face strained
as if in the last agony of violent suffocation. Such spectaelca
were at this period not uncommon in Ireland ; but they were
new to our young traveller, and he turned from the " grisly
era shudder of mingled horror and disgust, saying
within
in" withhititnlf-" this is still worse than hanging in chains.
What fitter means could be devised to render a people brutal and
sanguinary than to habituate them to so barbarous a spectacle as !'
this!"

" Faugh !" cried the sergeant as he alighted ; "but which of
them was he ?"

" The young fellow yimr party seized in the mountain yester-
day morning ; Doran—Felix Doran ; for there is a whole covey
of them Dorans, each worse than the other. They fly lees strong
now."

"By St. George ! but this is sharp work though, Master Con-
stable," said the soldier, looking for an instant half shocked.
" But fortune of war ! He was a mettle lad enough too."
He could here just discern the outline of a figure, delicate even
to emaciation, the top of a bloodless cheek, and the graceful con-
tour of a swan-like neck, from which the shawl had slipped
down, bended forward as if in sorrow or deep
thought. Without
accepting the assistance of either of her attendants, she leaned her
hand on the shoulder of the landlady, which their relative heights
enabled her to do with full effect; and in this manner ascended
the broad stone steps of the open porch to pass under the spiked
archway on which the bloody trophy wasszhibited.
A gout of blood, human blood, oozing from the lately dissever-

ed head, fell chill and heavy on the naked bended neck ; and
seemed, by instinctive horror, to curdle every drop of blood in the
fragile form which shrunk and withered at the unnatural touch.
She shivered with a sort of indrawn scream, and, staggering for-
ward, sunk kneeling on the steps; and, had not Grahame rushed
to her assistance, must have fallen forward on the sharp ledge of
the entrance hall.
" It's the dead rebel Doran !" shrieked the waiting-woman.
" How dare ye, woman, stick such frights over. your door to
scare ladies of fashion ?"
With a shivering inward murmur of horror, as if her very
life-blood were freezing, the fainting lady articulated, "His blood
is upon me !" and sunk into utter insensibility.
. The author is not more felicitous in his tender scenes
than sarcastic in his denunciation of the foes of Ireland,
Squire O'Toole was denominated the Protestant fail'
from his rank Orangeism, and brutality in hunting the,
" Rebels :"
T!•i: man was, indeed, a rank and disgusting specimen of that
race of reptiles, which, in all ages and countries, are quickened
amid corruption by the hot and pestilential breath of party-strife.
To be loyal, according to his distorted meaning of the term, was,
in the opinion of Mr. O'Toole, equivalent to justice, truth, and
humanity ; and to revile and insult his fellow-subjects of another
belief was equal to the fear of God and the love of man : united,
they, in his opinion, gave impunity to the rapacity, arrogance,
and petty tyranny of brief authority.
" Such loyalty and such faith !" was the young soldier's secret
thought. " Fortunately the "reign of such worthies must be as
brief as it is odious;" and he almost forgave Madam Mulroonie'e
failure of the bread end salt, those universal symbols of hospita-
lity, when, on Mr. O'Toole's stepping out to issue fresh orders,
lie heard her exclaim—
" Me hid you look out for Dennis, was id ?—Dirty thief !
make the boys xvilcome to the long ears of him—it's myself than
does—first time, plaise God ! they ketch him, mass or market,
bog or hill. He, the scullion! would know what belongs to the
feelings of ilegant females.--and herself too that knew the boy on
her father's demesne, and all his kin, decent people all. The
older brother's blood flowed for her's, and now the younger bby's.
The curse of St. Patrick, and of my own heart, be on them
wuld spill blood for sparing blood !"
Monica is the nurse and constant attendant of the young
but unfortunate Aileen. This is a spirited but heart-
rending sketch :
" Heavens ! then, 'tis as I feared. The wife of Montegle is
the mother-of Elizabeth de Bruce ?"
" His most wretched wife !"
Grahame recoiled a step ere he said, " Monica, I have heard
enough. What Elizabeth twist never hear—never surmise.
Woman, how have you juggled with me !"
Monica could not, in the dim gleam shed by a distant lamp in
the corridor, see the flush which shame, grief, and indignation
had brought to the young man's cheek and brow, but she at once
understood the tone of his mind ; and, catching his hand, she
said, very solemnly, " Captain Wolfe Grahame, as true as the
God who is in Heaven hears us ! your present thoughts do cruel
wrong where they should now, and will yet be all respectful ten-
derness."

And Grahame breathed more freely as he said, " Then how,
or where has this lady met my unfortunate kinsman ?"
" Beneath her father's roof, as his betrothed bride, Aileen
O'Connor met and loved de Bruce, with the wild, fond, daring
love which draws down evil on the heart that owns its power."
" A clandestine connexion—unsanctioned by her family—as
it, I know, was unwelcome to his 9"
"A Prince might have wooed the daughter of O'Connor of the
West !" said the old woman, proudly—" and gloried in his con-
quest. Unsanctioned by her family ? Oh, no, no ! Heaven
and earth smiled upon their union ; and the old father's tremb-
ling voice grew firm as be blessed her trothplight pledged to de
Bruce; brethren and kindred heap kindness and blessing upon the
young, the beloved, the happy, the heantiful ! But Hell and its
incarnate demons atept between! Aileen O'Connor is the wife
of Montegle !"
"'Tie a strange tale !" said Grahame, shocked and subdued,
though not yet cured of his eager desire for the explanation of the
mystery.
" She plighted her faith, she interwove her fate with one of a
doomed race ! One is mad, the other miserable! Leave her
then. In her own time she will reveal herself; and think sot
'tis for herself she fears, or herself she spares : were O'Connor
once beyond the reach of pursuit, that were the signal of a long
delayed justice."
" I trust that he is," said Wolfe; " on the morning I left him
he rode a good horse, and bad a faithful guide, though a strange
and a wild one."
" And was she faithful—,the poor wretch ?" exclaimed the old
woman. "Do you say it ? Yon outcast and degraded woman,
forsaken of God and goodness! was she faithful ?" She laid her
hand on Wolfe's arm, her emotio❑ betraying deeper interest in
the vagrant Rouge-mantle than one so worthy could be supposed
to feel for one so vile.
" God forgive the mother, who, in her bitter sorrow and burn-
ing shame, cursed the first living thing that ever clung to her
bosom in infant innocence, and impute it not as evil to her, or as
sin to me."
It was but a transient interest that Grahame could at this
time take in the information thus conveyed; but he saw that the
heart of Monica, though bruised, was not chilled ; and he felt
pleasure in repeating his commendations of the address and fide-
lity of his late acquaintance.
She is stained with crimes enow, and faults, but too many ;
but the leprosy of treachery never yet tainted the blood of the Do-
rana. Oh ! pardon so mueh speech of that unhappy one, who
has haunted my thoughts, and corroded my heart for many a
lonely year ! Why should not the decent mother have au evil
child ? May not the human fiend prove the angel's sire ? But

part in peace now, I entreat ; and I shall know-neither rest nor
solace till I have redeemed the promise to you, which I this
night solemnly repeat."

And the following is not more beautiful than pathetic--
breathing the pure spirit of poetry and wildness of fancy :
The door of the cabinet Ives between the old-fashioned, high
testered bed, and the couch on which the lady reclined; and ex-
actly opposite to this door was one of those large filigree-framed
mirrors so prized by the landlady. It was but to push the door
a little aside—an almost unpardonable act of curiosity—and re-
flected in a hazy phantom light, Grahame beheld the delicate re-
clining form, tinted with flitting dream-like hues, which threw
around the pale and exquisitely beautiful countenance a shadowy,
indescribable, and almost aerial softness; as if the whole being
were a floating vision of enchantment, impalpable to touch.
Thus, in as it were her own element of mystery, was revealed the
mother of his Elizabeth ! Almost afraid to breathe, lest a breath
might dissipate the fairy scene, Wolfe stood silent and watchful.
" Monica, sit by me while I tell you my dreams. I have had
happy dreams to-night !Is not this All-Hallow Eve when spirits:
In her young dream of felicity, how happy she
have power ? But tell me first of my daughter—of o_'Connoreli
e ' T
me too, of him—that young and generous kinsman o
mufstde Bruce—
who, b
who, for her own sake, loved the poor Elizabeth.
b.
clasp warm
" His countenance was young and radian—
bat one duty—to my
and of mine to follow ? On earth I have
I will brave
Elizabeth. Once assured of O'Connor'ssafety,
Heaven
vlieunn: human.
Elf Monica i
to
oawarning me of his death,
daughter. I have yet
for I too will this night, with you, wake your Fe-
another task;
lix ! And his shall be the bravest wake Munster has seen for
ages—ay • as
I if a Prince of O'Connor's race had departed in his
do was
justice it his
Fetch,to m y .
glory !" and she bent forward, and clasped the old woman's neck.
"And prayers shall he said for him at every shrine in Spain and
Italy, at which Pilgrim kneels, or at which Christian rites are
celebrated—even at those distant shrines in the land. that hold the
Holy Sepulchre. And to all who prize heroic faith, or who love
devoted affection, his grave will be as a shrine. 0 ! stint me not
iTnowtheise,l—walkewyi•loi util.:
Felix.—Theisnightw lifelessithyou, in the chapel of Brian's
body
is there alread _ti e
bleeding bead !—Oh, men ! into what demons are ye changed !"
Monica whispered in a tone so low that Grahame could not
ascertain one word of her meaning ; but there was a gleam of
melancholy delight in her thin and wasted features, which brought
a faint reciprocal glow of satisfaction into the countenance of the
lady.
" This is enough ! I have but one more duty on earth
then
come again ! Oh, coins ! bright and beloved messenger 1" Her
clasped hands were stretched out—her figure bent forward—her
eyes beaming in rapt and supernatural feeling, wandered round
the apartment, till they rested on the mirror, where the dim,
half-seen image of Wolfe was reflected, she started to her feet, and
flew as if to clasp this vanishing shadow, then recoiled, and sunk
on the couch in a state of complete exhaustion.
The robbery of the mail-coach in a deep ravine, over-
hung with branching trees at night, is of another descrip-
tion, but equally well told. Grahame is on the top of the
coach, and—

While stooping on one occasion to avoid this unpleasant con-
tact, a murmur was heard among the dragoons who rode in
advance ; and he caught the glance of a pair of wild eyes in the
branches above him. In the same instant the lamps were smashed,
the guard was borne down, and the trees crashed with the weight
of a man who dropt from them on the top of the vehicle. Wolfe
sn,pped his pistol—but it merely dashed the priming. Already

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