by Walter Scott
CHAPTER XXII
HIGHLAND MINSTRELSY
When the first salutations had passed, Fergus said to his sister, 'Mydear Flora, before I return to the barbarous ritual of our forefathers,I must tell you that Captain Waverley is a worshipper of the Celticmuse, not the less so perhaps that he does not understand a word of herlanguage. I have told him you are eminent as a translator of Highlandpoetry, and that Mac-Murrough admires your version of his songs uponthe same principle that Captain Waverley admires the original,--becausehe does not comprehend them. Will you have the goodness to read orrecite to our guest in English the extraordinary string of names whichMac-Murrough has tacked together in Gaelic? My life to a moor-fowl'sfeather, you are provided with a version; for I know you are in all thebard's councils, and acquainted with his songs long before he rehearsesthem in the hall.'
'How can you say so, Fergus? You know how little these verses canpossibly interest an English stranger, even if I could translate themas you pretend.'
'Not less than they interest me, lady fair. To-day your jointcomposition, for I insist you had a share in it, has cost me the lastsilver cup in the castle, and I suppose will cost me something elsenext time I hold cour pleniere, if the muse descends on Mac-Murrough;for you know our proverb,--"When the hand of the chief ceases tobestow, the breath of the bard is frozen in the utterance."--Well, Iwould it were even so: there are three things that are useless to amodern Highlander,--a sword which he must not draw, a bard to sing ofdeeds which he dare not imitate, and a large goat-skin purse without alouis-d'or to put into it.'
'Well, brother, since you betray my secrets, you cannot expect me tokeep yours. I assure you, Captain Waverley, that Fergus is too proud toexchange his broardsword for a marechal's baton, that he esteemsMac-Murrough a far greater poet than Homer, and would not give up hisgoat-skin purse for all the louis-d'or which it could contain.'
'Well pronounced, Flora; blow for blow, as Conan [Footnote: See Note23.] said to the devil. Now do you two talk of bards and poetry, if notof purses and claymores, while I return to do the final honours to thesenators of the tribe of Ivor.' So saying, he left the room.
The conversation continued between Flora and Waverley; for twowell-dressed young women, whose character seemed to hover between thatof companions and dependants, took no share in it. They were bothpretty girls, but served only as foils to the grace and beauty of theirpatroness. The discourse followed the turn which the Chieftain hadgiven it, and Waverley was equally amused and surprised with theaccount which the lady gave him of Celtic poetry.
'The recitation,' she said, 'of poems recording the feats of heroes,the complaints of lovers, and the wars of contending tribes, forms thechief amusement of a winter fire-side in the Highlands. Some of theseare said to be very ancient, and if they are ever translated into anyof the languages of civilised Europe, cannot fail to produce a deep andgeneral sensation. Others are more modern, the composition of thosefamily bards whom the chieftains of more distinguished name and powerretain as the poets and historians of their tribes. These, of course,possess various degrees of merit; but much of it must evaporate intranslation, or be lost on those who do not sympathise with thefeelings of the poet.'
'And your bard, whose effusions seemed to produce such effect upon thecompany to-day, is he reckoned among the favourite poets of themountains?'
'That is a trying question. His reputation is high among hiscountrymen, and you must not expect me to depreciate it. [Footnote: TheHighland poet almost always was an improvisatore. Captain Burt met oneof them at Lovat's table.]
'But the song, Miss Mac-Ivor, seemed to awaken all those warriors, bothyoung and old.'
'The song is little more than a catalogue of names of the Highlandclans under their distinctive peculiarities, and an exhortation to themto remember and to emulate the actions of their forefathers.'
'And am I wrong in conjecturing, however extraordinary the guessappears, that there was some allusion to me in the verses which herecited?'
'You have a quick observation, Captain Waverley, which in this instancehas not deceived you. The Gaelic language, being uncommonly vocalic, iswell adapted for sudden and extemporaneous poetry; and a bard seldomfails to augment the effects of a premeditated song by throwing in anystanzas which may be suggested by the circumstances attending therecitation.'
'I would give my best horse to know what the Highland bard could findto say of such an unworthy Southron as myself.'
'It shall not even cost you a lock of his mane. Una, mavourneen! (Shespoke a few words to one of the young girls in attendance, whoinstantly curtsied and tripped out of the room.) I have sent Una tolearn from the bard the expressions he used, and you shall command myskill as dragoman.'
Una returned in a few minutes, and repeated to her mistress a few linesin Gaelic. Flora seemed to think for a moment, and then, slightlycolouring, she turned to Waverley--'It is impossible to gratify yourcuriosity, Captain Waverley, without exposing my own presumption. Ifyou will give me a few moments for consideration, I will endeavour toengraft the meaning of these lines upon a rude English translationwhich I have attempted of a part of the original. The duties of thetea-table seem to be concluded, and, as the evening is delightful, Unawill show you the way to one of my favourite haunts, and Cathleen and Iwill join you there.'
Una, having received instructions in her native language, conductedWaverley out by a passage different from that through which he hadentered the apartment. At a distance he heard the hall of the Chiefstill resounding with the clang of bagpipes and the high applause ofhis guests. Having gained the open air by a postern door, they walked alittle way up the wild, bleak, and narrow valley in which the house wassituated, following the course of the stream that winded through it. Ina spot, about a quarter of a mile from the castle, two brooks, whichformed the little river, had their junction. The larger of the two camedown the long bare valley, which extended, apparently without anychange or elevation of character, as far as the hills which formed itsboundary permitted the eye to reach. But the other stream, which hadits source among the mountains on the left hand of the strath, seemedto issue from a very narrow and dark opening betwixt two large rocks.These streams were different also in character. The larger was placid,and even sullen in its course, wheeling in deep eddies, or sleeping indark blue pools; but the motions of the lesser brook were rapid andfurious, issuing from between precipices, like a maniac from hisconfinement, all foam and uproar.
It was up the course of this last stream that Waverley, like a knightof romance, was conducted by the fair Highland damsel, his silentguide. A small path, which had been rendered easy in many places forFlora's accommodation, led him through scenery of a very differentdescription from that which he had just quitted. Around the castle allwas cold, bare, and desolate, yet tame even in desolation; but thisnarrow glen, at so short a distance, seemed to open into the land ofromance. The rocks assumed a thousand peculiar and varied forms. In oneplace a crag of huge size presented its gigantic bulk, as if to forbidthe passenger's farther progress; and it was not until he approachedits very base that Waverley discerned the sudden and acute turn bywhich the pathway wheeled its course around this formidable obstacle.In another spot the projecting rocks from the opposite sides of thechasm had approached so near to each other that two pine-trees laidacross, and covered with turf, formed a rustic bridge at the height ofat least one hundred and fifty feet. It had no ledges, and was barelythree feet in breadth.
While gazing at this pass of peril, which crossed, like a single blackline, the small portion of blue sky not intercepted by the projectingrocks on either side, it was with a sensation of horror that Waverleybeheld Flora and her attendant appear, like inhabitants of anotherregion, propped, as it were, in mid air, upon this trembling structure.She stopped upon observing him below, and, with an air of graceful easewhich made him shudder, waved her handkerchief to him by way of signal.He was unable, from the sense of dizziness which her situationconveyed, to return the salute; and was never mor
e relieved than whenthe fair apparition passed on from the precarious eminence which sheseemed to occupy with so much indifference, and disappeared on theother side.
Advancing a few yards, and passing under the bridge which he had viewedwith so much terror, the path ascended rapidly from the edge of thebrook, and the glen widened into a sylvan amphitheatre, waving withbirch, young oaks, and hazels, with here and there a scatteredyew-tree. The rocks now receded, but still showed their grey and shaggycrests rising among the copse-wood. Still higher rose eminences andpeaks, some bare, some clothed with wood, some round and purple withheath, and others splintered into rocks and crags. At a short turningthe path, which had for some furlongs lost sight of the brook, suddenlyplaced Waverley in front of a romantic waterfall. It was not soremarkable either for great height or quantity of water as for thebeautiful accompaniments which made the spot interesting. After abroken cataract of about twenty feet, the stream was received in alarge natural basin filled to the brim with water, which, where thebubbles of the fall subsided, was so exquisitely clear that, althoughit was of great depth, the eye could discern each pebble at the bottom.Eddying round this reservoir, the brook found its way as if over abroken part of the ledge, and formed a second fall, which seemed toseek the very abyss; then, wheeling out beneath from among the smoothdark rocks which it had polished for ages, it wandered murmuring downthe glen, forming the stream up which Waverley had just ascended.[Footnote: See Note 24.] The borders of this romantic reservoircorresponded in beauty; but it was beauty of a stern and commandingcast, as if in the act of expanding into grandeur. Mossy banks of turfwere broken and interrupted by huge fragments of rock, and decoratedwith trees and shrubs, some of which had been planted under thedirection of Flora, but so cautiously that they added to the gracewithout diminishing the romantic wildness of the scene.
Here, like one of those lovely forms which decorate the landscapes ofPoussin, Waverley found Flora gazing on the waterfall. Two pacesfurther back stood Cathleen, holding a small Scottish harp, the use ofwhich had been taught to Flora by Rory Dall, one of the last harpers ofthe Western Highlands. The sun, now stooping in the west, gave a richand varied tinge to all the objects which surrounded Waverley, andseemed to add more than human brilliancy to the full expressivedarkness of Flora's eye, exalted the richness and purity of hercomplexion, and enhanced the dignity and grace of her beautiful form.Edward thought he had never, even in his wildest dreams, imagined afigure of such exquisite and interesting loveliness. The wild beauty ofthe retreat, bursting upon him as if by magic, augmented the mingledfeeling of delight and awe with which he approached her, like a fairenchantress of Boiardo or Ariosto, by whose nod the scenery aroundseemed to have been created an Eden in the wilderness.
Flora, like every beautiful woman, was conscious of her own power, andpleased with its effects, which she could easily discern from therespectful yet confused address of the young soldier. But, as shepossessed excellent sense, she gave the romance of the scene and otheraccidental circumstances full weight in appreciating the feelings withwhich Waverley seemed obviously to be impressed; and, unacquainted withthe fanciful and susceptible peculiarities of his character, consideredhis homage as the passing tribute which a woman of even inferior charmsmight have expected in such a situation. She therefore quietly led theway to a spot at such a distance from the cascade that its sound shouldrather accompany than interrupt that of her voice and instrument, and,sitting down upon a mossy fragment of rock, she took the harp fromCathleen.
'I have given you the trouble of walking to this spot, CaptainWaverley, both because I thought the scenery would interest you, andbecause a Highland song would suffer still more from my imperfecttranslation were I to introduce it without its own wild and appropriateaccompaniments. To speak in the poetical language of my country, theseat of the Celtic Muse is in the mist of the secret and solitary hill,and her voice in the murmur of the mountain stream. He who woos hermust love the barren rock more than the fertile valley, and thesolitude of the desert better than the festivity of the hall.'
Few could have heard this lovely woman make this declaration, with avoice where harmony was exalted by pathos, without exclaiming that themuse whom she invoked could never find a more appropriaterepresentative. But Waverley, though the thought rushed on his mind,found no courage to utter it. Indeed, the wild feeling of romanticdelight with which he heard the few first notes she drew from herinstrument amounted almost to a sense of pain. He would not for worldshave quitted his place by her side; yet he almost longed for solitude,that he might decipher and examine at leisure the complication ofemotions which now agitated his bosom.
Flora had exchanged the measured and monotonous recitative of the bardfor a lofty and uncommon Highland air, which had been a battle-song informer ages. A few irregular strains introduced a prelude of a wild andpeculiar tone, which harmonised well with the distant waterfall, andthe soft sigh of the evening breeze in the rustling leaves of an aspen,which overhung the seat of the fair harpress. The following versesconvey but little idea of the feelings with which, so sung andaccompanied, they were heard by Waverley:--
There is mist on the mountain, and night on the vale, But more dark is the sleep of the sons of the Gael. A stranger commanded--it sunk on the land, It has frozen each heart, and benumb'd every hand!
The dirk and the target lie sordid with dust, The bloodless claymore is but redden'd with rust; On the hill or the glen if a gun should appear, It is only to war with the heath-cock or deer.
The deeds of our sires if our bards should rehearse, Let a blush or a blow be the meed of their verse! Be mute every string, and be hush'd every tone, That shall bid us remember the fame that is flown.
But the dark hours of night and of slumber are past, The morn on our mountains is dawning at last; Glenaladale's peaks are illumined with the rays, And the streams of Glenfinnan leap bright in the blaze.
[Footnote: The young and daring adventurer, Charles Edward, landed atGlenaladale, in Moidart, and displayed his standard in the valley ofGlenfinnan, mustering around it the Mac-Donalds, the Camerons, andother less numerous clans, whom he had prevailed on to join him. Thereis a monument erected on the spot, with a Latin inscription by the lateDoctor Gregory.]
O high-minded Moray! the exiled! the dear! In the blush of the dawning the STANDARD uprear! Wide, wide on the winds of the north let it fly, Like the sun's latest flash when the tempest is nigh!
[Footnote: The Marquis of Tullibardine's elder brother, who, longexiled, returned to Scotland with Charles Edward in 1745.]
Ye sons of the strong, when that dawning shall break, Need the harp of the aged remind you to wake? That dawn never beam'd on your forefathers' eye, But it roused each high chieftain to vanquish or die.
O, sprung from the Kings who in Islay kept state, Proud chiefs of Clan Ranald, Glengarry, and Sleat! Combine like three streams from one mountain of snow, And resistless in union rush down on the foe!
True son of Sir Evan, undaunted Lochiel, Place thy targe on thy shoulder and burnish thy steel! Rough Keppoch, give breath to thy bugle's bold swell, Till far Coryarrick resound to the knell!
Stern son of Lord Kenneth, high chief of Kintail, Let the stag in thy standard bound wild in the gale! May the race of Clan Gillean, the fearless and free, Remember Glenlivat, Harlaw, and Dundee!
Let the clan of grey Fingon, whose offspring has given Such heroes to earth and such martyrs to heaven, Unite with the race of renown'd Rorri More, To launch the long galley and stretch to the oar.
How Mac-Shimei will joy when their chief shall display The yew-crested bonnet o'er tresses of grey! How the race of wrong'd Alpine and murder'd Glencoe Shall shout for revenge when they pour on the foe!
Ye sons of brown Dermid, who slew the wild boar, Resume the pure faith of the great Callum-More! Mac-Neil of the islands, and Moy of the Lake, For honour, for fre
edom, for vengeance awake!
Here a large greyhound, bounding up the glen, jumped upon Flora andinterrupted her music by his importunate caresses. At a distant whistlehe turned and shot down the path again with the rapidity of an arrow.'That is Fergus's faithful attendant, Captain Waverley, and that washis signal. He likes no poetry but what is humorous, and comes in goodtime to interrupt my long catalogue of the tribes, whom one of yoursaucy English poets calls
Our bootless host of high-born beggars, Mac-Leans, Mac-Kenzies, and Mac-Gregors.'
Waverley expressed his regret at the interruption.
'O you cannot guess how much you have lost! The bard, as in duty bound,has addressed three long stanzas to Vich Ian Vohr of the Banners,enumerating all his great properties, and not forgetting his being acheerer of the harper and bard--"a giver of bounteous gifts." Besides,you should have heard a practical admonition to the fair-haired son ofthe stranger, who lives in the land where the grass is alwaysgreen--the rider on the shining pampered steed, whose hue is like theraven, and whose neigh is like the scream of the eagle for battle. Thisvaliant horseman is affectionately conjured to remember that hisancestors were distinguished by their loyalty as well as by theircourage. All this you have lost; but, since your curiosity is notsatisfied, I judge, from the distant sound of my brother's whistle, Imay have time to sing the concluding stanzas before he comes to laughat my translation.'
Awake on your hills, on your islands awake, Brave sons of the mountain, the frith, and the lake! 'T is the bugle--but not for the chase is the call; 'T is the pibroch's shrill summons--but not to the hall.
'T is the summons of heroes for conquest or death, When the banners are blazing on mountain and heath: They call to the dirk, the claymore, and the targe, To the march and the muster, the line and the charge.
Be the brand of each chieftain like Fin's in his ire! May the blood through his veins flow like currents of fire! Burst the base foreign yoke as your sires did of yore, Or die like your sires, and endure it no more!
