" said the birch; and its
leaves quivered in the sunshine so that the dew trembled.
leaves quivered in the sunshine so that the dew trembled.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v04 - Bes to Bro
The
sign, the sign that was with me from my birth! In lofty flight
I have followed it hither with all the strength of my soul, and
here I am struck by the arrow of death. I fall, and behold the
rocks beneath, upon which I shall be crushed. Have I, then,
seen a-wrong? Ah, how the winds and currents of my life stood
yonder, where it was warm and fruitful, while I toiled up where
it grew ever colder, and my ship is now clasped by the drifting
icebergs; a moment yet, and it must sink. Then let it sink,
and all will be over. [On his knees. ] But in thy arms, All-
Merciful, I shall find peace!
What miracle is this? For in the hour I prayed the prayer
was granted! Peace, perfect peace! [Rises. ] Then will I go
to-morrow to my last battle as to the altar; peace shall at last be
mine for all my longings.
[Holds his head bowed and covered by his hands. As he, after a
time, slowly removes them, he looks around. ]
How this autumn evening brings reconciliation to my soul!
Sun and wave and shore and sea flow all together, as in the
thought of God all others; never yet has it seemed so fair to me!
Yet it is not mine to reign over this lovely land.
How greatly
I have done it ill! But how has it all come so to pass? for in
my wanderings I saw thy mountains in every sky, I yearned for
home as a child longs for Christmas, yet I came no sooner, and
when at last I came - I gave thee wound upon wound.
But thou, in contemplative mood, now gazest upon me, and
givest me at parting this fairest autumn night of thine. I will
ascend yonder rock and take a long farewell. [Mounts up.
And even thus I stood eighteen years ago, thus looked out
upon the sea, blue beneath the rising sun. The fresh breezes of
morning seemed wafted to me from a high future; through the
sky's light veil a vision of strange lands was mine; in the glow
of the morning sun, wealth and honor shone upon me; and to
all this, the white sails of the Crusaders should swiftly bear me.
## p. 1975 (#165) ###########################################
BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON
1975
Farewell, dreams of my youth! Farewell, my sweet country!
Ah, to what sorrow thou hast brought me forth! But now it
will soon be over.
[He descends.
If these ships should sail up to me this very night bear-
ing the fulfillment of all my dreams! Could any one of them
be now in truth mine,- or may a tree bear fruit twice in one
year?
I give way to make room for some better man. But be thou
gracious to me, and let death be mine with these feelings in my
heart, for strength to be faithful might not long be vouchsafed
me.
«< Thou shalt die to-morrow! " How sure a father-confessor is
that word! Now for the first time I speak truth to myself.
Ivar [climbing over a rock]—Yes, here he is. [Gives his hand
to the nun. ]
The Nun [without seeing]— Sigurd! [Mounts up. ] Yes, there
he is!
Sigurd - Mother!
The Nun-My child, found once more! [They remain long
clasped in each other's arms. ] My son, my son, now shalt thou
no more escape me!
Sigurd-O my mother!
The Nun-Thou wilt keep away from this battle, is it not
We two will win another kingdom,-a much better one.
Sigurd—I understand thee, mother. [Leads her to a seat, and
falls upon his knee. ]
-
The Nun - Yes, dost thou not? Thou art not so bad as all
men would have it. I knew that well, but wanted so much to
speak with thee,- and since thou art wearied and hast lost thy
hopes for this world, thou hast come back to me, for even now
there is time! And of all thy realm they must leave thee some
little plot, and there we will live by the church, so that when
the bells ring for vespers we shall be near the blessed Olaf, and
with him seek the presence of the Almighty. And there we will
heal thy wounds with holy water, and thoughts of love, more
than thou canst remember ever to have had, shall come back to
thee robed in white, and wondering recollection shall have no
end. For the great shall be made small and the small great,
and there shall be questionings and revelations and eternal happi-
Thou wilt come and thus live with me, my son, wilt thou
not? Thou wilt stay from this battle and come quickly?
ness.
so?
## p. 1976 (#166) ###########################################
1976
BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON
Sigurd-Mother, I have not wept till now since I lay upon
the parched earth of the Holy Land.
The Nun-Thou wilt follow me?
Sigurd
To do thus were to escape the pledges I have made
but by breaking them.
The Nun-To what art thou now pledged?
Sigurd Pledged to the blind king I took from the cloister;
pledged to the men I have led hither.
―
The Nun-And these pledges thou shalt redeem - how?
Sigurd-By fighting and falling at their head.
The Nun [springs to her feet. Sigurd also rises. ]—No! No!
No! Shall I now, after a lifetime of sorrow, behold thy death?
Sigurd-Yes, mother. The Lord of life and death will have
it so.
The Nun-Ah! what sufferings a moment's sin may bring!
[She falls upon his breast, then sinks, with outstretched arms. ]
O my son, spare me!
Sigurd-Do not tempt me, mother!
The Nun-Hast thou taken thought of what may follow?
Hast thou thought of capture, of mutilation?
Sigurd - I have some hymns left me from childhood.
sing them.
I can
The Nun-But I thy mother-spare me!
Sigurd - Make not to me this hour more bitter than death
itself.
The Nun-But why now die? We have found one another.
Sigurd-We two have nothing more to live for.
The Nun-Wilt thou soon leave me?
Sigurd Till the morning sun appear we will sit together.
Let me lift thee upon this rock. [He does so, and casts himself
at her feet. ] It was fair that thou shouldst come to me. All
my life is now blotted out, and I am a child with thee once
more. And now we will seek out together the land of our
inheritance. I must away for a moment to take my leave, and
then I shall be ready, and I think that thou too art ready.
Ivar Ingemundson [falling on his knee] - My lord, now let me
be your friend.
Sigurd [extending his hand]-Ivar, thou wilt not leave her
to-morrow?
―
Ivar Ingemundson-Not until she is set free.
Sigurd - And now sing me the Crusader's song. I may joy-
fully go hence after that.
## p. 1977 (#167) ###########################################
BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON
1977
IVAR INGEMUNDSON [rises and sings] —
Fair is the earth,
Fair is God's heaven;
Fair is the pilgrim-path of the soul.
Singing we go
Through the fair realms of earth,
Seeking the way to our heavenly goal.
Races shall come,
And shall pass away;
And the world from age to age shall roll;
But the heavenly tones
Of our pilgrim song
Shall echo still in the joyous soul.
First heard of shepherds,
By angels sung,
Wide it has spread since that glad morn:
Peace upon earth!
Rejoice all men,
For unto us is a Savior born. *
[The mother places both her hands on Sigurd's head, and they look into
one another's eyes; he then rests his head upon her breast. ]
*This song is borrowed by Björnson from the Danish poet B. S. Inge-
mann, although it is slightly altered for its present use.
Copyrighted by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. , Boston.
HOW THE MOUNTAIN WAS CLAD
THE
From Arne': copyright 1881 and 1882, by Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
HERE was a deep gorge between two mountains. Through
this gorge a large, full stream flowed heavily over a rough
and stony bottom. Both sides were high and steep, and so
one side was bare; but close to its foot, and so near the stream
that the latter sprinkled it with moisture every spring and
autumn, stood a group of fresh-looking trees, gazing upward and
onward, yet unable to advance this way or that.
"What if we should clothe the mountain? " said the juniper
one day to the foreign oak, to which it stood nearer than all the
others. The oak looked down to find out who it was that spoke,
## p. 1978 (#168) ###########################################
1978
BJÖRNSTIERNE BJÖRNSON
and then it looked up again without deigning a reply. The
river rushed along so violently that it worked itself into a white
foam; the north wind had forced its way through the gorge and
shrieked in the clefts of the rocks; the naked mountain, with its
great weight, hung heavily over and felt cold. "What if we
should clothe the mountain? " said the juniper to the fir on the
other side. "If anybody is to do it, I suppose it must be we,”
said the fir, taking hold of its beard and glancing toward the
birch. "What do you think? " But the birch peered cautiously
up at the mountain, which hung over it so threateningly that it
seemed as if it could scarcely breathe. "Let us clothe it, in
God's name! " said the birch. And so, though there were but
these three, they undertook to clothe the mountain. The juniper
went first.
When they had gone a little way, they met the heather. The
juniper seemed as though about to go past it. "Nay, take the
heather along," said the fir. And the heather joined them.
Soon it began to glide on before the juniper. "Catch hold of
me," said the heather. The juniper did so, and where there was
only a wee crevice, the heather thrust in a finger, and where it
first had placed a finger, the juniper took hold with its whole
hand. They crawled and crept along, the fir laboring on behind,
the birch also. "This is well worth doing," said the birch.
But the mountain began to ponder on what manner of insig-
nificant objects these might be that were clambering up over it.
And after it had been considering the matter a few hundred
years, it sent a little brook down to inquire. It was yet in the
time of the spring freshets, and the brook stole on until it
reached the heather. "Dear, dear heather, cannot you let me
pass? I am so small. " The heather was very busy; only raised
itself a little and pressed onward. In, under, and onward went
the brook. "Dear, dear juniper, cannot you let me pass? I am
so small. "
The juniper looked sharply at it; but if the heather
had let it pass, why, in all reason, it must do so too. Under it
and onward went the brook; and now came to the spot where
the fir stood puffing on the hill-side. "Dear, dear fir, cannot you
let me pass? I am really so small," said the brook,- and it
kissed the fir's feet and made itself so very sweet. The fir
became bashful at this, and let it pass. But the birch raised itself
before the brook asked it. "Hi, hi, hi! " said the brook, and
grew. "Ha, ha, ha! " said the brook, and grew. "Ho, ho, ho! "
## p. 1979 (#169) ###########################################
BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON
1979
said the brook, and flung the heather and the juniper and the fir
and the birch flat on their faces and backs, up and down these
great hills.
The mountain sat up for many hundred years mus-
ing on whether it had not smiled a little that day.
It was plain enough: the mountain did not want to be clad.
The heather fretted over this until it grew green again, and
then it started forward. "Fresh courage! " said the heather.
The juniper had half raised itself to look at the heather, and
continued to keep this position, until at length it stood upright.
It scratched its head and set forth again, taking such a vigorous
foothold that it seemed as though the mountain must feel it.
"If you will not have me, then I will have you. ” The fir
crooked its toes a little to find out whether they were whole,
then lifted one foot, found it whole, then the other, which
proved also to be whole, then both of them. It first investi-
gated the ground it had been over, next where it had been
lying, and finally where it should go. After this it began to
wend its way slowly along, and acted just as though it had
never fallen. The birch had become most wretchedly soiled,
but now rose up and made itself tidy. Then they sped onward,
faster and faster, upward and on either side, in sunshine and in
rain. "What in the world can this be? " said the mountain,
all glittering with dew, as the summer sun shone down on it.
The birds sang, the wood-mouse piped, the hare hopped along,
and the ermine hid itself and screamed.
Then the day came when the heather could peep with one eye
over the edge of the mountain. "Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear! "
said the heather, and away it went. "Dear me! what is it the
heather sees? " said the juniper, and moved on until it could
peer up. "Oh dear, oh dear! " it shrieked, and was gone.
"What is the matter with the juniper to-day? " said the fir, and
took long strides onward in the heat of the sun. Soon it could
raise itself on its toes and peep up. "Oh dear! " Branches and
needles stood on end in wonderment. It worked its way forward,
came up, and was gone. "What is it all the others see, and not
I? " said the birch; and lifting well its skirts, it tripped after.
It stretched its whole head up at once. "Oh,-oh! — is not here
a great forest of fir and heather, of juniper and birch, standing
upon the table-land waiting for us?
" said the birch; and its
leaves quivered in the sunshine so that the dew trembled. “Ay,
this is what it is to reach the goal! " said the juniper.
## p. 1980 (#170) ###########################################
1980
BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON
THE FATHER
Copyright 1881 and 1882, by Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
THE
HE man whose story is here to be told was the wealthiest and
most influential person in his parish; his name was Thord
Overaas. He appeared in the priest's study one day, tall
and earnest.
"I have gotten a son," said he, "and I wish to present him
for baptism. "
"What shall his name be? "
"Finn,-after my father. "
"And the sponsors ? »
They were mentioned, and proved to be the best men and
women of Thord's relations in the parish.
«
"Is there anything else? " inquired the priest, and looked up.
The peasant hesitated a little.
"I should like very much to have him baptized by himself,"
said he, finally.
"That is to say, on a week-day ? »
"Next Saturday, at twelve o'clock noon. ”
"Is there anything else? " inquired the priest.
"There is nothing else;" and the peasant twirled his cap, as
though he were about to go.
Then the priest rose. "There is yet this, however," said he,
and walking toward Thord, he took him by the hand and looked
gravely into his eyes: "God grant that the child may become a
blessing to you! "
One day sixteen years later, Thord stood once more in the
priest's study.
"Really, you carry your age astonishingly well, Thord," said
the priest; for he saw no change whatever in the man.
"That is because I have no troubles," replied Thord.
To this the priest said nothing, but after a while he asked,
"What is your pleasure this evening? "
"I have come this evening about that son of mine who is to
be confirmed to-morrow. "
"He is a bright boy. "
"I did not wish to pay the priest until I heard what number
the boy would have when he takes his place in church to-
morrow. "
## p. 1981 (#171) ###########################################
BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON
1981
"He will stand Number One. "
"So I have heard; and here are ten dollars for the priest. ”
"Is there anything else I can do for you? " inquired the priest,
fixing his eyes on Thord.
"There is nothing else. "
Thord went out.
Eight years more rolled by, and then one day a noise was
heard outside of the priest's study, for many men were approach-
ing, and at their head was Thord, who entered first.
The priest looked up and recognized him.
"You come well attended this evening, Thord," said he.
"I am here to request that the banns may be published for
my son: he is about to marry Karen Storliden, daughter of
Gudmund, who stands here beside me. "
"Why, that is the richest girl in the parish. "
"So they say," replied the peasant, stroking back his hair with
one hand.
The priest sat awhile as if in deep thought, then entered the
names in his book, without making any comments, and the men
wrote their signatures underneath. Thord laid three dollars on
the table.
"One is all I am to have," said the priest.
"I know that very well, but he is my only child; I want to
do it handsomely. "
The priest took the money.
"This is now the third time, Thord, that you have come here
on your son's account.
"But now I am through with him," said Thord, and folding
up his pocket-book he said farewell and walked away.
The men slowly followed him.
A fortnight later, the father and son were rowing one calm,
still day, across the lake to Storliden to make arrangements for
the wedding.
"This thwart is not secure," said the son, and stood up to
straighten the seat on which he was sitting.
At the same moment the board he was standing on slipped
from under him; he threw out his arms, uttered a shriek, and
fell overboard.
"Take hold of the oar! " shouted the father, springing to his
feet and holding out the oar.
But when the son had made a couple of efforts he grew stiff.
## p. 1982 (#172) ###########################################
1982
BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON
"Wait a moment! " cried the father, and began to row toward
his son.
Then the son rolled over on his back, gave his father one long
look, and sank.
Thord could scarcely believe it; he held the boat still, and
stared at the spot where his son had gone down, as though he
must surely come to the surface again. There rose some bubbles,
then some more, and finally one large one that burst; and the
lake lay there as smooth and bright as a mirror again.
For three days and three nights people saw the father rowing
round and round the spot, without taking either food or sleep;
he was dragging the lake for the body of his son. And toward
morning of the third day he found it, and carried it in his arms
up over the hills to his gård.
It might have been about a year from that day, when the
priest, late one autumn evening, heard some one in the passage
outside of the door, carefully trying to find the latch. The priest
opened the door, and in walked a tall, thin man, with bowed
form and white hair. The priest looked long at him before he
recognized him. It was Thord.
"Are you out walking so late? " said the priest, and stood still
in front of him.
"Ah, yes! it is late," said Thord, and took a seat.
The priest sat down also, as though waiting. A long, long
silence followed. At last Thord said:-
"I have something with me that I should like to give to the
poor; I want it to be invested as a legacy in my son's name. "
He rose, laid some money on the table, and sat down again.
The priest counted it.
"It is a great deal of money," said he.
"It is half the price of my gård. I sold it to-day. "
The priest sat long in silence. At last he asked, but gently:
"What do you propose to do now, Thord ? »
"Something better. "
They sat there for awhile, Thord with downcast eyes, the
priest with his eyes fixed on Thord. Presently the priest said.
slowly and softly:-
"I think your son has at last brought you a true blessing. "
"Yes, I think so myself," said Thord, looking up, while two
big tears coursed slowly down his cheeks.
―――――
## p. 1983 (#173) ###########################################
1983
WILLIAM BLACK
(1841-)
N VIEW of Mr. Black's accurate and picturesque descriptions of
natural phenomena, it is interesting to know that of his
varied youthful studies, botany most attracted him, and
that he followed it up as an art pupil in the government schools.
But his bent was rather for journalism than for art or science.
Before he was twenty-one he had written critical essays for a local
newspaper on Ruskin, Carlyle, and Kingsley; and shortly afterward
he wrote a series of sketches, after Christopher North, that at this
early age gave evidence of his peculiar
talent, the artistic use of natural effects
in the development of character, the pathos
of the gray morning or the melancholy of
the evening mist when woven in with
tender episode or tragic occurrence.
WILLIAM BLACK
William Black was born in Glasgow,
Scotland, November 6th, 1841, and received
his early education there. He settled in
London in 1864, and was a special corre-
spondent of the Morning Star in the Franco-
Prussian war, but after about ten years of
the life of a newspaper man, during which
he was an editor of the London News, he
abandoned journalism for novel-writing in 1875. In the intervals of
his work he traveled much, and devoted himself with enthusiasm to
out-door sports, of which he writes with a knowledge that inspires a
certain confidence in the reader. A Scotch skipper once told him he
need never starve, because he could make a living as pilot in the
western Highlands; and the fidelity of his descriptions of northern
Scotland have met with the questionable reward of converting a
poet's haunt into a tourist's camp. Not that Mr. Black's is a game-
keeper's catalogue of the phenomena of forest or stream, or the
poetic way of depicting nature by similes. The fascination of his
writing lies in our conviction that it is the result of minute observa-
tion, with a certain atmospheric quality that makes the picture
alive. More, one is conscious of a sensitive, pathetic thrill in his
writing; these sights and sounds, when they are unobtrusively chron-
icled, are penetrated by a subtle human sympathy, as if the writer
## p. 1984 (#174) ###########################################
1984
WILLIAM BLACK
bent close to the earth and heard the whispers of the flowers and
stones, as well as the murmur of the forest and the roar of the sea.
>
<
He is eminently a popular writer, a vivacious delineator of life
and manners, even when he exhibits his versatility at the cost of
some of his most attractive characteristics. In 'Sunrise' we have a
combination of romance and politics, its motive supplied by the in-
trigues of a wide-spread communistic society. 'Kilmeny is the story
of a painter, Shandon Bells' of a literary man, The Monarch of
Mincing Lane' tells of the London streets, the heroine of 'The Hand-
some Humes' is an actress, the scenes in Briseis' are played in
Athens, Scotland, and England. All these novels have tragic and
exceptional episodes, the humor is broad, as the humor of a pessi-
mist always is, and the reader finds himself laughing at a practical
joke on the heels of a catastrophe. Mr. Black knows his London,
especially the drawing-room aspect of it, and his latest novel is sure
to have the latest touch of fad and fashion, although white heather
does not cease to grow nor deer to be stalked, nor flies to be cast in
Highland waters. We cannot admit that he is exceptionally fortu-
nate in the heroines of these novels, however, for they are perfectly
beautiful and perfectly good, and nature protests against perfection
as a hurt to vanity. Our real favorites are the dark-eyed Queen
Titania, the small imperious person who drives in state in Strange
Adventures of a Phaeton,' and sails with such high courage in White
Wings, and the half-sentimental, half-practical, wholly self-seeking
siren Bonny Leslie in Kilmeny,' who develops into something a
little more than coquettish in the Kitty of Shandon Bells. '
These and half a dozen other novels by Mr. Black entitle him to
his place as a popular novelist; they are alternately gay and sad,
they are spirited and entertaining; certain characters, like the heroine
of 'Sunrise,' cast a bright effulgence over the dark plots of intrigue.
But Mr. Black is at his best as the creator of the special school of
fiction that has Highland scenery and Highland character for its
field. He has many followers and many imitators, but he remains
master on his own ground. The scenes of his most successful
stories, The Princess of Thule,' 'A Daughter of Heth,' 'In Far
Lochaber,' 'Macleod of Dare,' and 'Madcap Violet,' are laid for the
most part in remote rural districts, amid lake and moorland and
mountain wilds of northern Scotland, whose unsophisticated atmo-
sphere is invaded by airs from the outer world only during the brief
season of hunting and fishing.
But the visit of the worldling is long enough to furnish incident
both poetic and tragic; and when he enters the innocent and prim-
itive life of the native, as Lavender entered that of the proud and
beautiful Princess of Thule sailing her boat in the far-off waters of
## p. 1985 (#175) ###########################################
WILLIAM BLACK
1985
Skye, or the cruel Gertrude in the grim castle of Dare, he finds all
the potencies of passion and emotion.
The temperament of the Highlander is a melancholy one. The
narrow life, with its isolation and its hardships, makes him pessimistic
and brooding, though endowed with the keen instinct and peculiar
humor of those who are far removed from the artificialities of life.
But Mr. Black ascribes this temperament, not to race or hardship or
isolation, but to the strange sights and sounds of the sea and land
on which he dwells, to the wild nights and fierce sunsets, to the dark
ocean plains that brood over the secrets that lie in their depths.
Under his treatment nature is subjective, and plays the part of
fate. Natural scenery is as the orchestra to a Wagnerian opera. The
shifting of the clouds, the voice of the sea, the scent of the woods,
are made the most important factors in the formation of character.
He whose home is in mountain fastnesses knows the solemn glory
of sunrise and sunset, and has for his heritage the high brave temper
of the warrior, with the melancholy of the poet. The dweller on
tawny sands, where the waves beat lazily on summer afternoons and
where wild winds howl in storm, is of like necessity capricious and
melancholy. The minor key, in which Poe thought all true poetry is
written, is struck in these his earlier novels. Let the day be ever
so beautiful, the air ever so clear, the shadows give back a sensitive,
luminous darkness that reveals tragedies within itself.
Not that the sentient background, as he has painted it, is to be
confounded with the "sympathy of nature with character" of the
older school, in which hysterical emotion is accentuated by wild wind
storms, and the happiness of lovers by a sunshiny day. But char-
acter, as depicted by him in these early novels, is so far subordinate
to nature that nature assumes moral responsibility. When Macleod
of Dare commits murder and then suicide, we accept it as the result
of climatic influences; and the tranquil-conscienced Hamish, the
would-be homicide, but obeys the call of the winds. Especially in
the delightful romances of Skye, Mr. Black reproduces the actual
speech and manners of the people.
And as romance of motive clothes barren rocks in rich hues and
waste bogland in golden gorse, it does like loving service for homely
characters. The dialect these people talk, without editorial comment,
delights and amuses from its strangeness, and also from the convic-
tion that it is as real as the landscape. They tell wonderful tales of
moor and fen as they tramp the woods or sail on moonlit waters,
and sitting by a peat fire of a stormy night, discuss, between deep
pulls of Scotch whisky, the Erastianism that vitiates modern theol-
ogy.
We must look in the pages of Scott for a more charming
picture of the relation of clansman to chief.
IV-125
## p. 1986 (#176) ###########################################
1986
WILLIAM BLACK
But Mr. Black is his own most formidable rival. He who painted
the sympathetic landscapes of northern Scotland has taught the
reader the subtle distinction between these delicate scenes and those
in which nature's moods are obtrusively chronicled. There are nov-
els by Mr. Black in reading which we exclaim, with the exhausted
young lady at the end of her week's sight-seeing, "What! another
sunset! »
And he set himself a difficult task when he attempted to
draw another character so human and so lovable as the Princess
of Thule, although the reader were ungracious indeed did he not
welcome the beautiful young lady with the kind heart and the
proud, hurt smile, whom he became familiar with through frequent
encounters in the author's other novels. And if Earlscope, who
has a dim sort of kinship with the more vigorous hero of 'Jane
Eyre,' has been succeeded by well-bred young gentlemen who never
smoke in the presence of their female relatives, though they are
master hands at sailing a boat and knocking down obtrusive foreign-
ers, Mr. Black has not since A Daughter of Heth' done so dramatic
a piece of writing as the story of the Earl's death and Coquette's
flight. The "Daughter of Heth," with her friendly simplicity and
innocent wiles, and Madcap Violet, the laughter-loving, deserve per-
haps a kinder fate than a broken heart and an early grave.
But what the novelist Gogol said of himself and his audience fifty
years ago is as true as ever: "Thankless is the task of whoever
ventures to show what passes every moment before his eyes. " When
he is heart-breaking, and therefore exceptional, Mr. Black is most
interesting. A sad ending is not necessarily depressing to the reader.
"There is something," says La Rochefoucauld, "in the misfortunes of
our best friends that doth not displease us. "
In Mr. Black's later novels, the burden of tradition has been too
heavy for him, and he has ended them all happily, as if they were
fairy tales. He chose a more artistic as well as a more faithful part
when they were in keeping with life.
## p. 1987 (#177) ###########################################
WILLIAM BLACK
1987
THE END OF MACLEOD OF DARE
"D
UNCAN," said Hamish in a low whisper,- for Macleod had
gone below, and they thought he might be asleep in the
small hushed state-room-"this is a strange-looking day,
is it not? And I am afraid of it in this open bay, with an
anchorage no better than a sheet of paper for an anchorage.
you see now how strange-looking it is? "
Do
Duncan Cameron also spoke in his native tongue, and he
said:
"That is true, Hamish. And it was a day like this there was
when the Solan was sunk at her moorings in Loch Hourn. Do
you remember, Hamish ? And it would be better for us now if
we were in Loch Tua, or Loch-na-Keal, or in the dock that was
built for the steamer at Tiree. I do not like the look of this
day. »
Yet to an ordinary observer it would have seemed that the
chief characteristic of this pale, still day was extreme and set-
tled calm. There was not a breath of wind to ruffle the sur-
face of the sea; but there was a slight glassy swell, and that
only served to show curious opalescent tints under the suffused
light of the sun. There were no clouds; there was only a thin
veil of faint and sultry mist all across the sky: the sun was
invisible, but there was a glare of yellow at one point of the
heavens. A dead calm; but heavy, oppressed, sultry. There
was something in the atmosphere that seemed to weigh on the
chest.
"There was a dream I had this morning," continued Hamish,
in the same low tones. "It was about my little granddaughter
Christina. You know my little Christina, Duncan. And she
said to me, 'What have you done with Sir Keith Macleod?
Why have you not brought him back? He was under your care,
grandfather. ' I did not like that dream. "
"Oh, you are becoming as bad as Sir Keith Macleod himself! "
said the other. "He does not sleep. He talks to himself. You
will become like that if you pay attention to foolish dreams,
Hamish. "
Hamish's quick temper leaped up.
"What do you mean, Duncan Cameron, by saying 'as bad as
Sir Keith Macleod'? You-you come from Ross: perhaps they
## p. 1988 (#178) ###########################################
1988
WILLIAM BLACK
have not good masters there. I tell you there is not any man
in Ross, or in Sutherland either, is as good a master and as
brave a lad as Sir Keith Macleod - not any one, Duncan Cam-
eron! "
"I did not mean anything like that, Hamish," said the other,
humbly. "But there was a breeze this morning. We could have
got over to Loch Tua. Why did we stay here, where there is
no shelter and no anchorage? Do you know what is likely to
come after a day like this? "
"It is your business to be a sailor on board this yacht; it is
not your business to say where she will go," said Hamish.
But all the same the old man was becoming more and more
alarmed at the ugly aspect of this dead calm. The very birds,
instead of stalking among the still pools, or lying buoyant on the
smooth waters, were excitedly calling, and whirring from one
point to another.
"If the equinoctials were to begin now," said Duncan Cam-
eron, "this is a fine place to meet the equinoctials! An open
bay, without shelter; and a ground that is no ground for an
anchorage. It is not two anchors or twenty anchors would hold
in such a ground. "
Macleod appeared: the men were suddenly silent. Without a
word to either of them—and that was not his wont- he passed
to the stern of the yacht.
sign, the sign that was with me from my birth! In lofty flight
I have followed it hither with all the strength of my soul, and
here I am struck by the arrow of death. I fall, and behold the
rocks beneath, upon which I shall be crushed. Have I, then,
seen a-wrong? Ah, how the winds and currents of my life stood
yonder, where it was warm and fruitful, while I toiled up where
it grew ever colder, and my ship is now clasped by the drifting
icebergs; a moment yet, and it must sink. Then let it sink,
and all will be over. [On his knees. ] But in thy arms, All-
Merciful, I shall find peace!
What miracle is this? For in the hour I prayed the prayer
was granted! Peace, perfect peace! [Rises. ] Then will I go
to-morrow to my last battle as to the altar; peace shall at last be
mine for all my longings.
[Holds his head bowed and covered by his hands. As he, after a
time, slowly removes them, he looks around. ]
How this autumn evening brings reconciliation to my soul!
Sun and wave and shore and sea flow all together, as in the
thought of God all others; never yet has it seemed so fair to me!
Yet it is not mine to reign over this lovely land.
How greatly
I have done it ill! But how has it all come so to pass? for in
my wanderings I saw thy mountains in every sky, I yearned for
home as a child longs for Christmas, yet I came no sooner, and
when at last I came - I gave thee wound upon wound.
But thou, in contemplative mood, now gazest upon me, and
givest me at parting this fairest autumn night of thine. I will
ascend yonder rock and take a long farewell. [Mounts up.
And even thus I stood eighteen years ago, thus looked out
upon the sea, blue beneath the rising sun. The fresh breezes of
morning seemed wafted to me from a high future; through the
sky's light veil a vision of strange lands was mine; in the glow
of the morning sun, wealth and honor shone upon me; and to
all this, the white sails of the Crusaders should swiftly bear me.
## p. 1975 (#165) ###########################################
BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON
1975
Farewell, dreams of my youth! Farewell, my sweet country!
Ah, to what sorrow thou hast brought me forth! But now it
will soon be over.
[He descends.
If these ships should sail up to me this very night bear-
ing the fulfillment of all my dreams! Could any one of them
be now in truth mine,- or may a tree bear fruit twice in one
year?
I give way to make room for some better man. But be thou
gracious to me, and let death be mine with these feelings in my
heart, for strength to be faithful might not long be vouchsafed
me.
«< Thou shalt die to-morrow! " How sure a father-confessor is
that word! Now for the first time I speak truth to myself.
Ivar [climbing over a rock]—Yes, here he is. [Gives his hand
to the nun. ]
The Nun [without seeing]— Sigurd! [Mounts up. ] Yes, there
he is!
Sigurd - Mother!
The Nun-My child, found once more! [They remain long
clasped in each other's arms. ] My son, my son, now shalt thou
no more escape me!
Sigurd-O my mother!
The Nun-Thou wilt keep away from this battle, is it not
We two will win another kingdom,-a much better one.
Sigurd—I understand thee, mother. [Leads her to a seat, and
falls upon his knee. ]
-
The Nun - Yes, dost thou not? Thou art not so bad as all
men would have it. I knew that well, but wanted so much to
speak with thee,- and since thou art wearied and hast lost thy
hopes for this world, thou hast come back to me, for even now
there is time! And of all thy realm they must leave thee some
little plot, and there we will live by the church, so that when
the bells ring for vespers we shall be near the blessed Olaf, and
with him seek the presence of the Almighty. And there we will
heal thy wounds with holy water, and thoughts of love, more
than thou canst remember ever to have had, shall come back to
thee robed in white, and wondering recollection shall have no
end. For the great shall be made small and the small great,
and there shall be questionings and revelations and eternal happi-
Thou wilt come and thus live with me, my son, wilt thou
not? Thou wilt stay from this battle and come quickly?
ness.
so?
## p. 1976 (#166) ###########################################
1976
BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON
Sigurd-Mother, I have not wept till now since I lay upon
the parched earth of the Holy Land.
The Nun-Thou wilt follow me?
Sigurd
To do thus were to escape the pledges I have made
but by breaking them.
The Nun-To what art thou now pledged?
Sigurd Pledged to the blind king I took from the cloister;
pledged to the men I have led hither.
―
The Nun-And these pledges thou shalt redeem - how?
Sigurd-By fighting and falling at their head.
The Nun [springs to her feet. Sigurd also rises. ]—No! No!
No! Shall I now, after a lifetime of sorrow, behold thy death?
Sigurd-Yes, mother. The Lord of life and death will have
it so.
The Nun-Ah! what sufferings a moment's sin may bring!
[She falls upon his breast, then sinks, with outstretched arms. ]
O my son, spare me!
Sigurd-Do not tempt me, mother!
The Nun-Hast thou taken thought of what may follow?
Hast thou thought of capture, of mutilation?
Sigurd - I have some hymns left me from childhood.
sing them.
I can
The Nun-But I thy mother-spare me!
Sigurd - Make not to me this hour more bitter than death
itself.
The Nun-But why now die? We have found one another.
Sigurd-We two have nothing more to live for.
The Nun-Wilt thou soon leave me?
Sigurd Till the morning sun appear we will sit together.
Let me lift thee upon this rock. [He does so, and casts himself
at her feet. ] It was fair that thou shouldst come to me. All
my life is now blotted out, and I am a child with thee once
more. And now we will seek out together the land of our
inheritance. I must away for a moment to take my leave, and
then I shall be ready, and I think that thou too art ready.
Ivar Ingemundson [falling on his knee] - My lord, now let me
be your friend.
Sigurd [extending his hand]-Ivar, thou wilt not leave her
to-morrow?
―
Ivar Ingemundson-Not until she is set free.
Sigurd - And now sing me the Crusader's song. I may joy-
fully go hence after that.
## p. 1977 (#167) ###########################################
BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON
1977
IVAR INGEMUNDSON [rises and sings] —
Fair is the earth,
Fair is God's heaven;
Fair is the pilgrim-path of the soul.
Singing we go
Through the fair realms of earth,
Seeking the way to our heavenly goal.
Races shall come,
And shall pass away;
And the world from age to age shall roll;
But the heavenly tones
Of our pilgrim song
Shall echo still in the joyous soul.
First heard of shepherds,
By angels sung,
Wide it has spread since that glad morn:
Peace upon earth!
Rejoice all men,
For unto us is a Savior born. *
[The mother places both her hands on Sigurd's head, and they look into
one another's eyes; he then rests his head upon her breast. ]
*This song is borrowed by Björnson from the Danish poet B. S. Inge-
mann, although it is slightly altered for its present use.
Copyrighted by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. , Boston.
HOW THE MOUNTAIN WAS CLAD
THE
From Arne': copyright 1881 and 1882, by Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
HERE was a deep gorge between two mountains. Through
this gorge a large, full stream flowed heavily over a rough
and stony bottom. Both sides were high and steep, and so
one side was bare; but close to its foot, and so near the stream
that the latter sprinkled it with moisture every spring and
autumn, stood a group of fresh-looking trees, gazing upward and
onward, yet unable to advance this way or that.
"What if we should clothe the mountain? " said the juniper
one day to the foreign oak, to which it stood nearer than all the
others. The oak looked down to find out who it was that spoke,
## p. 1978 (#168) ###########################################
1978
BJÖRNSTIERNE BJÖRNSON
and then it looked up again without deigning a reply. The
river rushed along so violently that it worked itself into a white
foam; the north wind had forced its way through the gorge and
shrieked in the clefts of the rocks; the naked mountain, with its
great weight, hung heavily over and felt cold. "What if we
should clothe the mountain? " said the juniper to the fir on the
other side. "If anybody is to do it, I suppose it must be we,”
said the fir, taking hold of its beard and glancing toward the
birch. "What do you think? " But the birch peered cautiously
up at the mountain, which hung over it so threateningly that it
seemed as if it could scarcely breathe. "Let us clothe it, in
God's name! " said the birch. And so, though there were but
these three, they undertook to clothe the mountain. The juniper
went first.
When they had gone a little way, they met the heather. The
juniper seemed as though about to go past it. "Nay, take the
heather along," said the fir. And the heather joined them.
Soon it began to glide on before the juniper. "Catch hold of
me," said the heather. The juniper did so, and where there was
only a wee crevice, the heather thrust in a finger, and where it
first had placed a finger, the juniper took hold with its whole
hand. They crawled and crept along, the fir laboring on behind,
the birch also. "This is well worth doing," said the birch.
But the mountain began to ponder on what manner of insig-
nificant objects these might be that were clambering up over it.
And after it had been considering the matter a few hundred
years, it sent a little brook down to inquire. It was yet in the
time of the spring freshets, and the brook stole on until it
reached the heather. "Dear, dear heather, cannot you let me
pass? I am so small. " The heather was very busy; only raised
itself a little and pressed onward. In, under, and onward went
the brook. "Dear, dear juniper, cannot you let me pass? I am
so small. "
The juniper looked sharply at it; but if the heather
had let it pass, why, in all reason, it must do so too. Under it
and onward went the brook; and now came to the spot where
the fir stood puffing on the hill-side. "Dear, dear fir, cannot you
let me pass? I am really so small," said the brook,- and it
kissed the fir's feet and made itself so very sweet. The fir
became bashful at this, and let it pass. But the birch raised itself
before the brook asked it. "Hi, hi, hi! " said the brook, and
grew. "Ha, ha, ha! " said the brook, and grew. "Ho, ho, ho! "
## p. 1979 (#169) ###########################################
BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON
1979
said the brook, and flung the heather and the juniper and the fir
and the birch flat on their faces and backs, up and down these
great hills.
The mountain sat up for many hundred years mus-
ing on whether it had not smiled a little that day.
It was plain enough: the mountain did not want to be clad.
The heather fretted over this until it grew green again, and
then it started forward. "Fresh courage! " said the heather.
The juniper had half raised itself to look at the heather, and
continued to keep this position, until at length it stood upright.
It scratched its head and set forth again, taking such a vigorous
foothold that it seemed as though the mountain must feel it.
"If you will not have me, then I will have you. ” The fir
crooked its toes a little to find out whether they were whole,
then lifted one foot, found it whole, then the other, which
proved also to be whole, then both of them. It first investi-
gated the ground it had been over, next where it had been
lying, and finally where it should go. After this it began to
wend its way slowly along, and acted just as though it had
never fallen. The birch had become most wretchedly soiled,
but now rose up and made itself tidy. Then they sped onward,
faster and faster, upward and on either side, in sunshine and in
rain. "What in the world can this be? " said the mountain,
all glittering with dew, as the summer sun shone down on it.
The birds sang, the wood-mouse piped, the hare hopped along,
and the ermine hid itself and screamed.
Then the day came when the heather could peep with one eye
over the edge of the mountain. "Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear! "
said the heather, and away it went. "Dear me! what is it the
heather sees? " said the juniper, and moved on until it could
peer up. "Oh dear, oh dear! " it shrieked, and was gone.
"What is the matter with the juniper to-day? " said the fir, and
took long strides onward in the heat of the sun. Soon it could
raise itself on its toes and peep up. "Oh dear! " Branches and
needles stood on end in wonderment. It worked its way forward,
came up, and was gone. "What is it all the others see, and not
I? " said the birch; and lifting well its skirts, it tripped after.
It stretched its whole head up at once. "Oh,-oh! — is not here
a great forest of fir and heather, of juniper and birch, standing
upon the table-land waiting for us?
" said the birch; and its
leaves quivered in the sunshine so that the dew trembled. “Ay,
this is what it is to reach the goal! " said the juniper.
## p. 1980 (#170) ###########################################
1980
BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON
THE FATHER
Copyright 1881 and 1882, by Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
THE
HE man whose story is here to be told was the wealthiest and
most influential person in his parish; his name was Thord
Overaas. He appeared in the priest's study one day, tall
and earnest.
"I have gotten a son," said he, "and I wish to present him
for baptism. "
"What shall his name be? "
"Finn,-after my father. "
"And the sponsors ? »
They were mentioned, and proved to be the best men and
women of Thord's relations in the parish.
«
"Is there anything else? " inquired the priest, and looked up.
The peasant hesitated a little.
"I should like very much to have him baptized by himself,"
said he, finally.
"That is to say, on a week-day ? »
"Next Saturday, at twelve o'clock noon. ”
"Is there anything else? " inquired the priest.
"There is nothing else;" and the peasant twirled his cap, as
though he were about to go.
Then the priest rose. "There is yet this, however," said he,
and walking toward Thord, he took him by the hand and looked
gravely into his eyes: "God grant that the child may become a
blessing to you! "
One day sixteen years later, Thord stood once more in the
priest's study.
"Really, you carry your age astonishingly well, Thord," said
the priest; for he saw no change whatever in the man.
"That is because I have no troubles," replied Thord.
To this the priest said nothing, but after a while he asked,
"What is your pleasure this evening? "
"I have come this evening about that son of mine who is to
be confirmed to-morrow. "
"He is a bright boy. "
"I did not wish to pay the priest until I heard what number
the boy would have when he takes his place in church to-
morrow. "
## p. 1981 (#171) ###########################################
BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON
1981
"He will stand Number One. "
"So I have heard; and here are ten dollars for the priest. ”
"Is there anything else I can do for you? " inquired the priest,
fixing his eyes on Thord.
"There is nothing else. "
Thord went out.
Eight years more rolled by, and then one day a noise was
heard outside of the priest's study, for many men were approach-
ing, and at their head was Thord, who entered first.
The priest looked up and recognized him.
"You come well attended this evening, Thord," said he.
"I am here to request that the banns may be published for
my son: he is about to marry Karen Storliden, daughter of
Gudmund, who stands here beside me. "
"Why, that is the richest girl in the parish. "
"So they say," replied the peasant, stroking back his hair with
one hand.
The priest sat awhile as if in deep thought, then entered the
names in his book, without making any comments, and the men
wrote their signatures underneath. Thord laid three dollars on
the table.
"One is all I am to have," said the priest.
"I know that very well, but he is my only child; I want to
do it handsomely. "
The priest took the money.
"This is now the third time, Thord, that you have come here
on your son's account.
"But now I am through with him," said Thord, and folding
up his pocket-book he said farewell and walked away.
The men slowly followed him.
A fortnight later, the father and son were rowing one calm,
still day, across the lake to Storliden to make arrangements for
the wedding.
"This thwart is not secure," said the son, and stood up to
straighten the seat on which he was sitting.
At the same moment the board he was standing on slipped
from under him; he threw out his arms, uttered a shriek, and
fell overboard.
"Take hold of the oar! " shouted the father, springing to his
feet and holding out the oar.
But when the son had made a couple of efforts he grew stiff.
## p. 1982 (#172) ###########################################
1982
BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON
"Wait a moment! " cried the father, and began to row toward
his son.
Then the son rolled over on his back, gave his father one long
look, and sank.
Thord could scarcely believe it; he held the boat still, and
stared at the spot where his son had gone down, as though he
must surely come to the surface again. There rose some bubbles,
then some more, and finally one large one that burst; and the
lake lay there as smooth and bright as a mirror again.
For three days and three nights people saw the father rowing
round and round the spot, without taking either food or sleep;
he was dragging the lake for the body of his son. And toward
morning of the third day he found it, and carried it in his arms
up over the hills to his gård.
It might have been about a year from that day, when the
priest, late one autumn evening, heard some one in the passage
outside of the door, carefully trying to find the latch. The priest
opened the door, and in walked a tall, thin man, with bowed
form and white hair. The priest looked long at him before he
recognized him. It was Thord.
"Are you out walking so late? " said the priest, and stood still
in front of him.
"Ah, yes! it is late," said Thord, and took a seat.
The priest sat down also, as though waiting. A long, long
silence followed. At last Thord said:-
"I have something with me that I should like to give to the
poor; I want it to be invested as a legacy in my son's name. "
He rose, laid some money on the table, and sat down again.
The priest counted it.
"It is a great deal of money," said he.
"It is half the price of my gård. I sold it to-day. "
The priest sat long in silence. At last he asked, but gently:
"What do you propose to do now, Thord ? »
"Something better. "
They sat there for awhile, Thord with downcast eyes, the
priest with his eyes fixed on Thord. Presently the priest said.
slowly and softly:-
"I think your son has at last brought you a true blessing. "
"Yes, I think so myself," said Thord, looking up, while two
big tears coursed slowly down his cheeks.
―――――
## p. 1983 (#173) ###########################################
1983
WILLIAM BLACK
(1841-)
N VIEW of Mr. Black's accurate and picturesque descriptions of
natural phenomena, it is interesting to know that of his
varied youthful studies, botany most attracted him, and
that he followed it up as an art pupil in the government schools.
But his bent was rather for journalism than for art or science.
Before he was twenty-one he had written critical essays for a local
newspaper on Ruskin, Carlyle, and Kingsley; and shortly afterward
he wrote a series of sketches, after Christopher North, that at this
early age gave evidence of his peculiar
talent, the artistic use of natural effects
in the development of character, the pathos
of the gray morning or the melancholy of
the evening mist when woven in with
tender episode or tragic occurrence.
WILLIAM BLACK
William Black was born in Glasgow,
Scotland, November 6th, 1841, and received
his early education there. He settled in
London in 1864, and was a special corre-
spondent of the Morning Star in the Franco-
Prussian war, but after about ten years of
the life of a newspaper man, during which
he was an editor of the London News, he
abandoned journalism for novel-writing in 1875. In the intervals of
his work he traveled much, and devoted himself with enthusiasm to
out-door sports, of which he writes with a knowledge that inspires a
certain confidence in the reader. A Scotch skipper once told him he
need never starve, because he could make a living as pilot in the
western Highlands; and the fidelity of his descriptions of northern
Scotland have met with the questionable reward of converting a
poet's haunt into a tourist's camp. Not that Mr. Black's is a game-
keeper's catalogue of the phenomena of forest or stream, or the
poetic way of depicting nature by similes. The fascination of his
writing lies in our conviction that it is the result of minute observa-
tion, with a certain atmospheric quality that makes the picture
alive. More, one is conscious of a sensitive, pathetic thrill in his
writing; these sights and sounds, when they are unobtrusively chron-
icled, are penetrated by a subtle human sympathy, as if the writer
## p. 1984 (#174) ###########################################
1984
WILLIAM BLACK
bent close to the earth and heard the whispers of the flowers and
stones, as well as the murmur of the forest and the roar of the sea.
>
<
He is eminently a popular writer, a vivacious delineator of life
and manners, even when he exhibits his versatility at the cost of
some of his most attractive characteristics. In 'Sunrise' we have a
combination of romance and politics, its motive supplied by the in-
trigues of a wide-spread communistic society. 'Kilmeny is the story
of a painter, Shandon Bells' of a literary man, The Monarch of
Mincing Lane' tells of the London streets, the heroine of 'The Hand-
some Humes' is an actress, the scenes in Briseis' are played in
Athens, Scotland, and England. All these novels have tragic and
exceptional episodes, the humor is broad, as the humor of a pessi-
mist always is, and the reader finds himself laughing at a practical
joke on the heels of a catastrophe. Mr. Black knows his London,
especially the drawing-room aspect of it, and his latest novel is sure
to have the latest touch of fad and fashion, although white heather
does not cease to grow nor deer to be stalked, nor flies to be cast in
Highland waters. We cannot admit that he is exceptionally fortu-
nate in the heroines of these novels, however, for they are perfectly
beautiful and perfectly good, and nature protests against perfection
as a hurt to vanity. Our real favorites are the dark-eyed Queen
Titania, the small imperious person who drives in state in Strange
Adventures of a Phaeton,' and sails with such high courage in White
Wings, and the half-sentimental, half-practical, wholly self-seeking
siren Bonny Leslie in Kilmeny,' who develops into something a
little more than coquettish in the Kitty of Shandon Bells. '
These and half a dozen other novels by Mr. Black entitle him to
his place as a popular novelist; they are alternately gay and sad,
they are spirited and entertaining; certain characters, like the heroine
of 'Sunrise,' cast a bright effulgence over the dark plots of intrigue.
But Mr. Black is at his best as the creator of the special school of
fiction that has Highland scenery and Highland character for its
field. He has many followers and many imitators, but he remains
master on his own ground. The scenes of his most successful
stories, The Princess of Thule,' 'A Daughter of Heth,' 'In Far
Lochaber,' 'Macleod of Dare,' and 'Madcap Violet,' are laid for the
most part in remote rural districts, amid lake and moorland and
mountain wilds of northern Scotland, whose unsophisticated atmo-
sphere is invaded by airs from the outer world only during the brief
season of hunting and fishing.
But the visit of the worldling is long enough to furnish incident
both poetic and tragic; and when he enters the innocent and prim-
itive life of the native, as Lavender entered that of the proud and
beautiful Princess of Thule sailing her boat in the far-off waters of
## p. 1985 (#175) ###########################################
WILLIAM BLACK
1985
Skye, or the cruel Gertrude in the grim castle of Dare, he finds all
the potencies of passion and emotion.
The temperament of the Highlander is a melancholy one. The
narrow life, with its isolation and its hardships, makes him pessimistic
and brooding, though endowed with the keen instinct and peculiar
humor of those who are far removed from the artificialities of life.
But Mr. Black ascribes this temperament, not to race or hardship or
isolation, but to the strange sights and sounds of the sea and land
on which he dwells, to the wild nights and fierce sunsets, to the dark
ocean plains that brood over the secrets that lie in their depths.
Under his treatment nature is subjective, and plays the part of
fate. Natural scenery is as the orchestra to a Wagnerian opera. The
shifting of the clouds, the voice of the sea, the scent of the woods,
are made the most important factors in the formation of character.
He whose home is in mountain fastnesses knows the solemn glory
of sunrise and sunset, and has for his heritage the high brave temper
of the warrior, with the melancholy of the poet. The dweller on
tawny sands, where the waves beat lazily on summer afternoons and
where wild winds howl in storm, is of like necessity capricious and
melancholy. The minor key, in which Poe thought all true poetry is
written, is struck in these his earlier novels. Let the day be ever
so beautiful, the air ever so clear, the shadows give back a sensitive,
luminous darkness that reveals tragedies within itself.
Not that the sentient background, as he has painted it, is to be
confounded with the "sympathy of nature with character" of the
older school, in which hysterical emotion is accentuated by wild wind
storms, and the happiness of lovers by a sunshiny day. But char-
acter, as depicted by him in these early novels, is so far subordinate
to nature that nature assumes moral responsibility. When Macleod
of Dare commits murder and then suicide, we accept it as the result
of climatic influences; and the tranquil-conscienced Hamish, the
would-be homicide, but obeys the call of the winds. Especially in
the delightful romances of Skye, Mr. Black reproduces the actual
speech and manners of the people.
And as romance of motive clothes barren rocks in rich hues and
waste bogland in golden gorse, it does like loving service for homely
characters. The dialect these people talk, without editorial comment,
delights and amuses from its strangeness, and also from the convic-
tion that it is as real as the landscape. They tell wonderful tales of
moor and fen as they tramp the woods or sail on moonlit waters,
and sitting by a peat fire of a stormy night, discuss, between deep
pulls of Scotch whisky, the Erastianism that vitiates modern theol-
ogy.
We must look in the pages of Scott for a more charming
picture of the relation of clansman to chief.
IV-125
## p. 1986 (#176) ###########################################
1986
WILLIAM BLACK
But Mr. Black is his own most formidable rival. He who painted
the sympathetic landscapes of northern Scotland has taught the
reader the subtle distinction between these delicate scenes and those
in which nature's moods are obtrusively chronicled. There are nov-
els by Mr. Black in reading which we exclaim, with the exhausted
young lady at the end of her week's sight-seeing, "What! another
sunset! »
And he set himself a difficult task when he attempted to
draw another character so human and so lovable as the Princess
of Thule, although the reader were ungracious indeed did he not
welcome the beautiful young lady with the kind heart and the
proud, hurt smile, whom he became familiar with through frequent
encounters in the author's other novels. And if Earlscope, who
has a dim sort of kinship with the more vigorous hero of 'Jane
Eyre,' has been succeeded by well-bred young gentlemen who never
smoke in the presence of their female relatives, though they are
master hands at sailing a boat and knocking down obtrusive foreign-
ers, Mr. Black has not since A Daughter of Heth' done so dramatic
a piece of writing as the story of the Earl's death and Coquette's
flight. The "Daughter of Heth," with her friendly simplicity and
innocent wiles, and Madcap Violet, the laughter-loving, deserve per-
haps a kinder fate than a broken heart and an early grave.
But what the novelist Gogol said of himself and his audience fifty
years ago is as true as ever: "Thankless is the task of whoever
ventures to show what passes every moment before his eyes. " When
he is heart-breaking, and therefore exceptional, Mr. Black is most
interesting. A sad ending is not necessarily depressing to the reader.
"There is something," says La Rochefoucauld, "in the misfortunes of
our best friends that doth not displease us. "
In Mr. Black's later novels, the burden of tradition has been too
heavy for him, and he has ended them all happily, as if they were
fairy tales. He chose a more artistic as well as a more faithful part
when they were in keeping with life.
## p. 1987 (#177) ###########################################
WILLIAM BLACK
1987
THE END OF MACLEOD OF DARE
"D
UNCAN," said Hamish in a low whisper,- for Macleod had
gone below, and they thought he might be asleep in the
small hushed state-room-"this is a strange-looking day,
is it not? And I am afraid of it in this open bay, with an
anchorage no better than a sheet of paper for an anchorage.
you see now how strange-looking it is? "
Do
Duncan Cameron also spoke in his native tongue, and he
said:
"That is true, Hamish. And it was a day like this there was
when the Solan was sunk at her moorings in Loch Hourn. Do
you remember, Hamish ? And it would be better for us now if
we were in Loch Tua, or Loch-na-Keal, or in the dock that was
built for the steamer at Tiree. I do not like the look of this
day. »
Yet to an ordinary observer it would have seemed that the
chief characteristic of this pale, still day was extreme and set-
tled calm. There was not a breath of wind to ruffle the sur-
face of the sea; but there was a slight glassy swell, and that
only served to show curious opalescent tints under the suffused
light of the sun. There were no clouds; there was only a thin
veil of faint and sultry mist all across the sky: the sun was
invisible, but there was a glare of yellow at one point of the
heavens. A dead calm; but heavy, oppressed, sultry. There
was something in the atmosphere that seemed to weigh on the
chest.
"There was a dream I had this morning," continued Hamish,
in the same low tones. "It was about my little granddaughter
Christina. You know my little Christina, Duncan. And she
said to me, 'What have you done with Sir Keith Macleod?
Why have you not brought him back? He was under your care,
grandfather. ' I did not like that dream. "
"Oh, you are becoming as bad as Sir Keith Macleod himself! "
said the other. "He does not sleep. He talks to himself. You
will become like that if you pay attention to foolish dreams,
Hamish. "
Hamish's quick temper leaped up.
"What do you mean, Duncan Cameron, by saying 'as bad as
Sir Keith Macleod'? You-you come from Ross: perhaps they
## p. 1988 (#178) ###########################################
1988
WILLIAM BLACK
have not good masters there. I tell you there is not any man
in Ross, or in Sutherland either, is as good a master and as
brave a lad as Sir Keith Macleod - not any one, Duncan Cam-
eron! "
"I did not mean anything like that, Hamish," said the other,
humbly. "But there was a breeze this morning. We could have
got over to Loch Tua. Why did we stay here, where there is
no shelter and no anchorage? Do you know what is likely to
come after a day like this? "
"It is your business to be a sailor on board this yacht; it is
not your business to say where she will go," said Hamish.
But all the same the old man was becoming more and more
alarmed at the ugly aspect of this dead calm. The very birds,
instead of stalking among the still pools, or lying buoyant on the
smooth waters, were excitedly calling, and whirring from one
point to another.
"If the equinoctials were to begin now," said Duncan Cam-
eron, "this is a fine place to meet the equinoctials! An open
bay, without shelter; and a ground that is no ground for an
anchorage. It is not two anchors or twenty anchors would hold
in such a ground. "
Macleod appeared: the men were suddenly silent. Without a
word to either of them—and that was not his wont- he passed
to the stern of the yacht.
