Lancaster daily intelligencer. [volume] (Lancaster, Pa.) 1864-1928, 1886-10-09

climbs the slopesspf Ben Clebrig "where the
iun deer lie" And when he comes down,
ne stiffness OF the moonlight night is broken
with
"Come. all We Jolly shepherds
That " histle through the glen,
III tell ye of secret
What Is the greatest bliss
,ri nat the tongue % man can name
lis to WOO bonnie lassie
When the kye come home"
And the rustling of the leatless elms and the
OF the heavy-folisged pines Is the
music that accompanies him. Sometimes the
voice sings more definite song which intro
duces us TO the heroine:
Roses white. roses red,
Roses In the lane,
Tell me roses rcd and white
Where is Meenie game 2"
This Meenie Is little Highland lass with
"bonnie brown hair" and large, clear, blue
gray eyes Shy, sensitive, gentle-hesrted
and noble she well BELTS the scene with the
mountain, the lake and the moOrland with
its broad stretches OF heather.
The story Is particularly charming one
Tor the reason that II is siuguarly free from
any OF the painfully moral problems which
characterize so many of the novels OF the day,
and which the reader always feels called
upon to solve OF course the burden OF the
story IS the love Of the came-keeper upon
whose brow is the stamp OF noble manhood
and the little Highland lass. And the many
vivid descriptions of the salmon fishing on
the lake and the hare shootings up the slopes
OF the mountain are but the artistic setting to
this wild sensitive love
1t you have ever read anything OF Black
you will know that this story must be full of
delicious bits OF poetry, some aptly quoted
out in most cases original with the author.
And whoever cannot appreciate and enjoy
this poetry lacks an element in his nature,
and we fear will fail to ca Ch the purpose and
81 n
have the natural and spontaneous enthusi-
asm and sentiment of youth or being old in
years you have succeeded in retaining your
youthful romantic appreciation, your en-
Joyment will be genuine and keen.
Tneauthor very cleverIy and with efieCtintro.
duces into the story an American gentleman
OF leisure, who is attracted to that section OF
Scotland by the salmon fishing And one OF
the best characters perhaps is his dark-eyed
daughter, who finds here in the lake and the
mountain and the moorland and even in the
mists and fogs, delightful contrast to her
fsr-of city home in Chicago
But we thin the particular charm of the
book lies in the liie-like descriptions OF the
salmon fishing on Loeb Nayer, and the climbs
up the steep slopes OF Ben Clenrig to hunt
the hare and the deer. There is a freshness
aud vigor about all this that makes ones
blood run freer and purer through the veins,
and brings to the cheek the red hue of health.
Our acquaintance with the mountain and
better appreciate it ali when We read
Keen blows the wind upon ClehrIg'. side,
And the snow lies thick on the heather,
And the shivering kinds are glad to hide
Away from the winter weather.
Hark how the black lake torn ana to,t,
Thunders along the shores.
And the burn is nard in the grip of the frost,
And white, snow white, are the mOurs."
And how intimate a compsniouship with
nature Is indicated by the following:
Ben Clebrfg's a blsze Of spendor
In the first red lush OF the morn.
And hts gaze is fl Nsd on the eastward
To greet the day newborn;
And be listens a.still for the below
OF the antleTed stag afar,
And he laughs royal challenge,
fhe hoarse, harsh challenge OF war
But Ben Clebrig Is gentle and placid
And mild and a mellow radiance
shines on his giant crest;
For he Is looking down upon Meenie
And the mountain bestOws his blessing
On the fairest child OF Cod
In his stories Black seems to imbue all the
hills, rivers, lakes and wales with q kind OF
magic so that they become our personal
friends. They are fairly instinct with life
he gives them sort OF conscious, speaking
personality, II We may so speak. IT all seems
perfectly natural, too, so near to natures hear,
he draws us. Surely this is edifying and puri
flying.
From an artistic point Of view Blacks
novels are entitled to a high standing. We
know OF no one who can paint so dslicatel y
and describe so graphically. His stories are
STEPPED in sentiment and romance, and YET
there Is nothing mawkisn about them.
From moral point of view we think the
white Heather " and in fact his novels as a
class, stand perfectly free from even the
shadow OF an objection. We like them be
cause they are SO delightfully."- immoral. Not
that they are immoral Far from it, Tor they
are as chaste aud pure as the snow on Cleb
rigs summit There is nothing iC them that
even harnesses, much less pains our moral
sense. There are no guilty deeds or thoughts
that stain, which are glazed over by an en-
vironment of beauty which compels us often
at least to withhold our honest condeInna
ton, and which sometimes even bids us ad
mire. This has been a prominent character
istic OF one of our late American stories
This Is OF course only negative merit, but tc
lack such demorslizing fault, is it not a
merit worthy Of remark?
Too many novels pander to diseas ed, NOR
bid tastes. Full OF jealousies, hatreds, re
venge, malice and envy they sicken and
poison the moral nature, and taint the purity
OF the literary appreciation. We are often
stiiied and choked to suffocation by the no,
air oil bathrooms, and what should be the So
rious, earnest passion OF love is banded and
degraded into unhealthful coquetry and
filtration. Much better say we TO read of the
nuine honest love of Scotch gamek eeper
and a Highland lass. We prefer the cool
mountain air, even though sometimes IL
blows and howls in its violence. 1t is more
inyigorating and life-giving, We prefer the
mooriand wastes with the brown and purple
heather, "the tapping waters of the lock, The
vivid blue OF the skies when shining fair, or
bleak and stormy when the clouds are heavy
In the heavens the SOFT yellow of the lower
straths where the withered grass is mixed
with the orange bracken the soft russet of
the leafiess birch woods fIinging the shores
OF the lake." and overshadowing it ali the
irowning form OF Ben Clebrig. Something
like this:
THE moonlight lies on Loeb Naver
And he night is strange and still,
And the stars are ts inkling coldIy
Above the Clebrtg hill"
Or this:
And would be on Ben Clebrig's brow.
To watch the red deer stealing
In single tile adOwn the glen
And past the summer shiellng."
Here We can breathe In the elixir OF life
and ever renew our youth. Read the "White
Heather" and you will prefer that too.
ARGo.
81 want some sOLODONT," said he
"Just out" the cunning Druggist said.
q RuN -