MACLEOD OF DARE.*
Tim- Mr. Black is a master of his art is a fact that has been re- cognised long ago by the novel-reading public. Even if there be a certain amount of sameness about them, his books always afford real entertainment. It would not be difficult to show that the fair women and brave men who boat, and yacht, and drive together in Mr. Black's lively pages, bear a strong family likeness ; and it is pretty safe guessing that the limits of his frontier, scientific or otherwise, will include Scotland, or at any rate, the west coast thereof. And if the faintest symptom of things Scotch is to be found on the title-page or in the dramatis persona of a novel by Mr. Black, it is certain that this coast will find a place in the plot. No matter where the opening scene may lie, the question of geo- graphical interest most anxiously to be asked by the reader will be, " Stands Scotland where it did?" for thither he will be taken before the close of the story. Not that we object to meet Mr. Black in Scotland,—far from it. In fact, we are glad to welcome him anywhere, assured that be will give us something good ; or with perfection of feeling, paint for us some aspect of the face of nature. We may be sure, too, as in the book before us, that " flying cloud and changing light " will be described with fidelity and tenderness. His pictures are no set scenes. Sometimes he shows us, under a flood of sun-light, the dark islands brooding on the hushed, silver sea, and quiet and peace resting on mountain and loch. Then we hear the wind gradually rise until all is motion, and tumult, and
" The wild white horses foam and fret,"
under the passionate rush of the western gale. Or, as at Castle Dare, we hear the succeeding " smooth Atlantic swell, booming along the sombre caves." In this word-painting he is admirable, unsurpassed,—we had almost said unapproachable. It is delightful to encounter these descriptions in Mr. Black's books, and even if one picture does sometimes resemble another, both in scene and figure-painting, yet we feel that we have in his gallery much to be thankful for. What we do object to is that so many of his clever stories should end in such unrelieved misery, mistake, and dis- appointment. Is life generally so overflowing with joy and glad- ness, that we can spare so much sympathy for the creations of Mr. Black's brain? Surely it is not so. We take up a novel partly at least to be amused, to be cheered, to be rid of ourselves for a time, not to be made wretched and unhappy. There is enough of sorrow in real life. We enjoy Mr. Black's books, it is true ; we relish his scenes and stories, and his very pretty writing ; but at the same time we protest against the sad endings that have awaited so many of Mr. Black's men and women, as being both unnecessary and cruel.
The volumes before us form a fresh contribution to what may be called Mr. Black's " Highlands and Heartache" series, and of that series it is the beat, standing before A Daughter of .Heth or Madcap Violet. The hero of the story is Sir Keith Macleod, and we are told how he, a young Highland chieftain, goes up to London for the first time, from wind-swept Castle Dare, on the west coast of Mull. Macleod is brave, honest, and stedfast of purpose, but not without the pride, revengefulness, and even * kactead of Dare. By William Black. 8 vole. London: Macmillan and Co. 1878. superstition that mark so many of the Highland folk. His char- acter is drawn with a good deal of care, and its traits and idiosyn- cracies are gradually revealed to us, as is Mr. Black's way, in conversations and little incidents. There is not very much of a plot to be found in the tale. The book consists of a number of separate occurrences, which take place, some in London, some on the coast,—of Scotland, of course ; cela va sans dire. The heroine is a Miss Gertrude White, a lively young actress, " fine, and rare, and delicate" as a beautiful, tall flower. Macleod is greatly attracted by her, but that she can appear on the stage or take any pride in representing fictitious characters, is amazing to his simple mind. It is in vain her father preaches to him how high and inexorable is the sacrifice required by Art: " It seems a little hard, sir,' said Macleod to the old man, 'that an artist is not to have any life of his or her own at all ; that he or she should become merely a—a—a sort of Ten-minutes emotionalist.' It was not a bad phrase for a rude Highlander to have invented, on the spur of the moment. But the fact was that some little personal feeling stung him into the speech. He was prepared to resent this tyranny of Art. And if he now were to see some beautiful pale slave bound in these iron chains—and being exhibited for the amuse- ment of an idle world—what would the fierce blood of the Macleods say to that debasement? He began to dislike this old man, with his cruel theories, and his oracular speech. But he forbore to have further, or any, argument with him ; for he remembered what the Highlanders call the advice of the bell of Scoon,'—the thing that concerns you not, meddle not with."
Gertrude White's character is a direct contrast to Macleod's. She is clever, full of ambition, and devoted to her art, but at home fitful and wayward. Yet one cannot wonder that she is fascinated by the fierce stories Macleod tells of bloodshed and revenge, by his manly bearing and proud air, and by his fresh simplicity. After a Befits of adventures and misadventures, strung together into rather more of a story than is Mr. Black's wont, we have this scene, which we must preface by remarking that Macleod has asked Gertrude to wear a red rose in her dress, as an affirmative to a certain question :—
" He slept but little that night, and next morning he got up nervous and trembling—like a drunken man—with half the courage and confid- ence that had so long sustained him gone. He kept pacing about the room until the frightfully slow half-hours went by ; he hated the clock on the mantelpiece. And then, by a strong effort of will, he delayed starting until ho should barely have time to reach her house by twelve o'clock, so that he should have the mad delight of eagerly wish- ing the hansom had a still more furious speed. He had chosen his horse well. It wanted five minutes to the appointed hour when he arrived at the house. Did this trim maid-servant know ? Was there any- thing of a welcome in the demure smile ? He followed her; his face was pale, though he knew it not ; in the dusk of the room he was left alone. But what was this—on the table ? Ho almost uttered a cry, as his bewildered eyes fixed themselves on it. The very bouquet he had sent the previous evening ; and behold, behold the red rose wanting. And then, at the same moment, he turned, and there was a vision of something all in white—that came to him timidly —all in white, but for the red star of love shining there. And she did not speak at all, but she buried her head in his bosom, and he held her hands tight. And now what will Ulva say, and the lonely shores of Fladda, and the distant Dutchman, roused from his winter sleep amid the wild waves? Far away over the white sande of Iona—and the sun- light must be shining there now—there is many a sacred spot fit for the solemn plighting of lovers' vows; and if there is any organ wanted, what more noble than the vast Atlantic rollers, booming into the Bourg and Gribun caves? Surely they must know already, for the sea-birds have caught the cry, and there is a sound all through the glad rushing of the morning seas like the sound of wedding belle. There is a bride coming to Castle Dare,—the Wands listen, and the wild sea calls again ; and the green shores of Ulva grow greener still in the sunlight. There is a bride coming to Castle Dare ; and the bride is dressed all in white, —only she wears a red rose."
This is very charming. The idea that nature can, and often does, sympathise with our varying moods, is frequently and powerfully introduced into Mr. Black's writings, and always treated with success. It is, as it were, a corollary to Wordsworth's well- known expression that,—
" Nature never did betray the heart that loved her."
The brevity of woman's love has long ago passed into a proverb. A contrast is drawn between the fixed, enduring love of the man, who refuses to believe any evidence against her fickle nature, and the want of stedfastness on the part of the girl, who acts in life almost as lightly as she does on the stage. That Macleod and his sweetheart should meet in the Highlands is of course essential to the completeness of the story, and so Fionaghal, the Fair Stranger, goes down on a visit to Castle Dare, giving Mr. Black opportunity for introducing some of those capital scenes of boating and yachting that he does so well. Never, we think, has he been more admir- able than in these pages. Many of the scenes and incidents are extremely beautiful, and are filled with a deep pathos. We make no apology for quoting the following storm-picture, rendered in Mr. Black's best style :—
"Another blue-white sheet of flame quivered all around them, just as this black figure was descending into the gig, and then the fierce hell of sounds broke loose once more. Land and sky together seemed to shudder at the wild uproar ; and far away the sounds went thundering through the hollow night. How could one hear if there was any sobbing in that departing boat, or any last cry of farewell? It was Ulva calling now, and Fladda answering from over the black water; and the Dutchman is surely awake at last ! There came a stirring of wind,—from the east, and the sea began to moan. Surely the poor fugitives must have reached the shore now ? And then there was a new and strange noise in the distance ; in the awful silence between the peals of thunder it could be heard ; it came nearer and nearer—a low, murmuring noise, but full of a secret life and thrill—it came along like the tread of a thousand armies, and then the gale struck its first blow ! The yacht reeled under the stroke, then her bows staggered up again like a dog that has been felled ; and after one or two convulsive plunges, she clung hard at the strained cables. And now the gale was growing in fury, and the sea rising. Blinding showers of rain swept over, hissing and roaring ; the blue-white tongues of flame were shooting this way and that across the startled heavens ; and there was a more awful thunder than even the roar of the Atlantic booming into the great sea-caves. In the abysmal darkness, the spectral arms of the ocean rose white in their angry clamour ; and then another blue gleam would lay bare the great heaving and writhing bosom of the deep. What devil's dance is this? Surely it cannot be Ulva,—Ulva the green-shored,—Ulva that the sailors, in their love of her, call softly Ool-a-va,—that is laughing aloud with wild laughter on this fearful night? And Colonsay, and Lunga, and Fladda,—they were beautiful and quiet in the still summer- time ; but now they have gone mad, and they are flinging back the plunging sea in white masses of foam, and they are shrieking in their fierce joy of the strife. And Stuffa,—Staffa is far away, and alone, she is trembling to her core ; how long will the shuddering caves withstand the mighty hammer of the Atlantic surge ? And then, again, the sadden, wild gleam startles the night,—and one sees, with an appalling vividness, the driven white waves, and the black islands,—and then, again, a thousand echoes go booming along the iron- bound coast. What can be heard in the roar of the hurricane, and the hissing of the rain, and the thundering whirl of the waves on the rocks."
Fine as this is, it would be easy to point to several passages of equal beauty, did space allow. In addition to these word- pictures, we have a dozen woodcuts in this book, most of them excellent. That of "The 'Umpire' Sailing South" is, save for the somewhat hard under-edge of the dark cloud across the sun, singularly charming.
How Miss White is impressed by the wild grandeur of mountain and fiord, how the idea that if she is only removed from the influences that surround her in London, she will be always her own sweet self, takes gradual possession of Macleod ; how, stirred by a tale of revenge, told by old Hamish, his servant, he resolves to have " at least the splendid joy of doing and action ;" what desperate course he takes, and how it all ends,—we must leave the reader to find in Mr. Black's own pages. The minor characters are well sketched in, especially old Hamish, who is, " in his own person, skipper, bead keeper, steward, butler, and general major- domo." But though much may be said in praise of this tale, the wild improbability of the closing incidents detracts not a little from the pleasure we have found in its perusal. As soon as a drama or a novel which, pretending to represent the life of to-day, contains incidents which pass the bounds of the improbable, a great deal of the interest felt in the development of the plot is gone, and respect for the author's inventive faculty is lessened. Taken as a whole, there is more finish in this book than is usual with Mr. Black, and more elaboration of the chief characters. If we have been pained by the tragedy told in these pages, we are fain to confess that, rising from their perusal with feelings sad- dened and softened, we felt the conviction that Mr. Black is a writer who, if far from perfect, still maintains that pure, honest, self-sacrificing love is the noblest passion that can move the heart of man.
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