THE WHITE COMYN : AN OLD TRAGEDY.*

13EFORE her marriage, the wife of Lord Middleton was known as Miss Gordon Cumming of Altyra. A sister to the present baronet of that house, she is endowed with a large share of the various talents, evinced in many varied ways, which have distinguished the family. Her new book is a narrative poem founded on an old tradition about an incident in the long feud betwixt near neighbours, Randolph, Earl of Moray, and his euccessors on one side, with Clan Comyn on the other. One Alastair Bhan, or the White Comyn, was done to death in a • The Story of Alastair Matt Comyn ; or, the Tragedy of Dunphad. By the Lady Middleton. Edinburgh and London : William Blackwood and Sons. very cruel fashion. He was hunted into a cave, which is still pointed out; its narrow entrance was filled with brush-wood, which was then fired ; the flame was constantly fed for a long

time ; and the refugee was choked by the reek. The old castle of Dunphail was then besieged and taken, Alastair's father, with his brothers, being captured and killed. Their corpses were buried in a knoll near their house, called for long years the "grave of the headless Comyns." The ground was upturned in the course of last century, when half-a-dozen skeletons, each without a skull, were found in rudely con- structed stone chests. The story was told sixty years since by Sir Thomas Dick Lauder. In adapting it, Lady Middleton has used the poetic license to enlarge and embellish, showing fine imaginative powers in the romantic conceptions she has interwoven or superinduced. She justly says, "A tale is dull without women ;" so she brings in a Lady Ydonea, a niece and ward of Randolph's, who becomes the sweetheart of Alastair, with the effect of greatly intensifying the situation. Other two novel characters of very different types, though both remarkably well drawn, are introduced. The one is Sir Denys, of French descent, yet a nephew to Randolph, an amiable bookworm, who loves and hopes to win his cousin. The other is her maid Lupola, a creature barely human, though exquisitely beautiful, save for her wolfish eyes. It is confessed that the idea of her was taken from a weird story by George MacDonald in his Robert Falconer, which, says the borrower, "he has left out in later editions, more's the pity." She plays a great part in the drama. Though sometimes wearing an aspect of un-

reality, yet she is the product of a strong imagination, conjoined with a keen analytic faculty. The present, as has been indicated, is not Lady Middleton's first essay in the poetic region ; but it is her most ambitious and important. The accomplishment of verse she has not thoroughly attained, for many of her lines are rugged and abrupt ; yet the expres-

sion is always clear, if not so elegant as it might have been made, the colour vivid, and the feeling true, while through all there palpitates a passionate love' of Morayshire that cannot be restrained. For this cause, "Moray loons," as they call themselves, whether abroad or at home, whether belonging to the triumphant Saxon majority, or to the lessening number of the Celtic population, will prize the volume, which, apart from its literary charm, abounds in copious, erudite, and informing notes.

One of the best scenes is an account of a family council called by the old chief of the Comyns, when he foresaw the ruin of his house as imminent. His sons were all ready for self-sacrificing effort. Their proposals as to what each could or should do were all strangely unlike, and provocative only of good-humoured jest. The recital is given with great spirit ; but the moral of the whole is summed up by old Sir Alexander, whose language, without doubt, expresses one of the deepest wishes cherished by his remote descendant, the authoress

Stand true, 0 sons, to clan and family. So be your boast of lofty things alone : What dispositions you may recognise As of the blood, and native to the race, Weld and so temper, as an armonrer Converts rough iron to the nobler steel, Till through the fire of trial, that for all Who live, not dully slumbering, doth burn, Ye may pass shining to the opening glow Of a fair future for yourselves and name."

Sir Denys, though belonging to the opposite camp, is pictured as a man of such a type. He was chafed and mortified when Ydonea, appealing to him for help to save his rival, confessed that to that rival she had given her love; but his goodness and magnanimity prevailed, inducing him to do his best, though unsuccessfully. After a severe inward struggle,—

" he rose resolved and fortified, Threw off the man, and clad the angel on : For her to dare ? his life was all her own ; For her to die ? what left gray life to him Of joy or gain?"

The comment on this is :—

"We borrow from our Immortality The might to do such deeds, when mortal strength Of will and flesh forsake us."

The description of Alastair's death is a very gruesome but powerful passage. In strong contrast to it are several rich and beautiful songs, buoyant with the buoyancy of hope and faith. Of another order is the summons which accompanies the despatch of the fiery cross to gather the clan. A few verses we subjoin. They are almost worthy of Scott :—

"The blood of the Comyn fresh tainteth the gale ! The cheeks of his women are haggard and pale ; And hills of Lochaber ring loud to their wail !

. ..... . . . . . The chief of Clan Allan hath armed for the fight, The shrouds of the mountain lie heavy and white, Hoarse croaketh the corbie from gloaming till light.

Oh, rouse ye, Clan Comyn, from mountain and moor ! Out wood and by water ! forth cavern or door ! No shelter is trusty, no homestead is sure !

Raites' daughter hath burnished his armour of steel, His claymore is ground by his son on the wheel ; Now dare, ye false foemen, for mercy appeal !

That cross with the blood of Lochaber is dyed ; 'Twas dipped in the torrent that welled from his side, And loudly for vengeance his spirit hath cried.

Oh, rouse ye, Clan Comyn the muster of war Is cried from the summit of chill, grey Cairn-Bar : There gather,—come morrow,—from nigh and from far."

It should be stated that Lady Middleton makes her Randolph, not the great Earl, Bruce's lieutenant, but him who fell at Neville's Cross in 1346. Her volume has a touching dedication to her relative and close friend Lady Thurlow, in whom the blood of the Comyns mingles with that of Bruce.