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 upon thesame principle that Captain Waverley admires the original,--because hedoes not comprehend them. Will you have the goodness to read or reciteto our guest in English, the extraordinary string of names whichMac-Murrough has tacked together in Gaelic?--My life to a moorfowl'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 them asyou 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 else nexttime I hold COUR PLENIERE, if the muse descends on Mac-Murrough; foryou know our proverb,--When the hand of the chief ceases to bestow, thebreath of the bard is frozen in the utterance.--Well, I would it wereeven so: there are three things that are useless to a modern Highlander,a sword which he must not draw,--a bard to sing of deeds which he darenot imitate,--and a large goatskin purse without a louis d'or to putinto it.'
'Well, brother, since you betray my secrets, you cannot expect me tokeep yours.--I assure you, Captain Waverley, that Fergus is too proudto exchange his broadsword 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 [See Note 19.] said tothe devil. Now do you two talk of bards and poetry, if not of purses andclaymores, while I return to do the final honours to the senators of thetribe 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 had givenit, and Waverley was equally amused and surprised with the account whichthe 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 fireside in the Highlands. Some of these aresaid to be very ancient, and if they are ever translated into any of thelanguages of civilized Europe, cannot fail to produce a deep and generalsensation. Others are more modern, the composition of those family bardswhom the chieftains of more distinguished name and power retain as thepoets and historians of their tribes. These, of course, possess variousdegrees of merit; but much of it must evaporate in translation, or belost on those who do not sympathize with the feelings of the poet.
'And your bard, whose effusions seemed to produce such effect uponthe company to-day,--is he reckoned among the favourite poets of themountain?'
'That is a trying question. His reputation is high among his countrymen,and you must not expect me to depreciate it.' [The Highland poet almostalways was an improvisatore. Captain Burt met one of them at Lovat'stable.]
'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,is well adapted for sudden and extemporaneous poetry; and a bard seldomfails to augment the effects of a premeditated song, by throwing inany stanzas which may be suggested by the circumstances attending therecitation.'
'I would give my best horse to know what the Highland bard could find tosay 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, who instantlycurtsied, and tripped out of the room.)--I have sent Una to learn fromthe bard the expressions he used, and you shall command my skill asdragoman.'
Una returned in a few minutes, and repeated to her mistress a fewlines in 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 translation,which 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.In a 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 any changeor elevation of character, as far as the hills which formed its boundarypermitted the eye to reach. But the other stream, which had its sourceamong the mountains on the left hand of the strath, seemed to issue froma very narrow and dark opening betwixt two large rocks. These streamswere different also in character. The larger was placid, and even sullenin its course, wheeling in deep eddies, or sleeping in dark blue pools;but the motions of the lesser brook were rapid and furious, issuing frombetween precipices, like a maniac from his confinement, all foam anduproar.
It was up the course of this last stream that Waverley, like a knight ofromance, was conducted by the fair Highland damsel, his silent guide.A small path, which had been rendered easy in many places for Flora'saccommodation, led him through scenery of a very different descriptionfrom that which he had just quitted. Around the castle, all was cold,bare, and desolate, yet tame even in desolation; but this narrow glen,at so short a distance, seemed to open into the land of romance. Therocks assumed a thousand peculiar and varied forms. In one place, acrag of huge size presented its gigantic bulk, as if to forbid thepassenger's farther progress; and it was not until he approached itsvery base, that Waverley discerned the sudden and acute turn by whichthe pathway wheeled its course around this formidable obstacle. Inanother spot, the projecting rocks from the opposite sides of the chasmhad approached so near to each other, that two pine-trees laid across,and covered with turf, formed a rustic bridge at the height of at leastone hundred and fifty feet. It had no ledges, and was barely three feetin 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 ease,which made him shudder, waved her handkerchief to him by way of signal.He was unable, from the sense of dizziness which her situation conveyed,to return the salute; and was never more reli
eved than when the fairapparition passed on from the precarious eminence which she seemed tooccupy with so much indifference, and disappeared on the other 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 scattered yew-tree.The rocks now receded, but still showed their grey and shaggy crestsrising among the copse-wood. Still higher, rose eminences and peaks,some bare, some clothed with wood, some round and purple with heath, andothers splintered into rocks and crags. At a short turning, the path,which had for some furlongs lost sight of the brook, suddenly placedWaverley in front of a romantic waterfall. It was not so remarkableeither for great height or quantity of water, as for the beautifulaccompaniments which made the spot interesting. After a broken cataractof about twenty feet, the stream was received in a large natural basinfilled to the brim with water, which, where the bubbles of the fallsubsided, was so exquisitely clear, that, although it was of greatdepth, the eye could discern each pebble at the bottom. Eddying roundthis reservoir, the brook found its way over a broken part of the ledge,and formed a second fall, which seemed to seek the very abyss; then,wheeling out beneath from among the smooth dark rocks, which it hadpolished for ages, it wandered murmuring down the glen, forming thestream up which Waverley had just ascended. [See Note 20.] The bordersof this romantic reservoir corresponded in beauty; but it was beautyof a stern and commanding cast, as if in the act of expanding intograndeur. Mossy banks of turf were broken and interrupted by hugefragments of rock, and decorated with trees and shrubs, some of whichhad been planted under the direction of Flora, but so cautiously, thatthey added to the grace, without diminishing the romantic wildness ofthe scene.
Here, like one of those lovely forms which decorate the landscapesof Poussin, 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 expressive darknessof Flora's eye, exalted the richness and purity of her complexion, andenhanced the dignity and grace of her beautiful form. Edward thoughthe had never, even in his wildest dreams, imagined a figure of suchexquisite and interesting loveliness. The wild beauty of the retreat,bursting upon him as if by magic, augmented the mingled feeling ofdelight and awe with which he approached her, like a fair enchantress ofBoiardo or Ariosto, by whose nod the scenery around seemed to have beencreated, an Eden in the wilderness.
Flora, like every beautiful woman, was conscious of her own power,and pleased 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, Captain Waverley,both because I thought the scenery would interest you, and because aHighland song would suffer still more from my imperfect translation,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 wooes hermust love the barren rock more than the fertile valley, and the solitudeof 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 thatthe muse 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 first few 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 harmonized well with the distant waterfall, and thesoft sigh of the evening breeze in the rustling leaves of an aspen whichoverhung the seat of the fair harpress. The following verses convey butlittle idea of the feelings with which, so sung and accompanied, theywere 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 benumbed every hand!
The dirk and the target lie sordid with dust; The bloodless claymore is but reddened 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 hushed 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 illumed with the rays, And the streams of Glenfinnan leap bright in the blaze.
[The young and daring adventurer, Charles Edward, landed at Glenaladale, in Moidart, and displayed his standard in the valley of Glenfinnan, mustering around it the Mac-Donalds, the Camerons, and other less numerous clans, whom he had prevailed on to join him. There is a monument erected on the spot, with a Latin inscription by the late Dr. 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!
[The Marquis of Tullibardine's elder brother, who, long exiled, 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 beamed 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 Even, 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 Kinntail, 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 renowned Rorri More, To launch the long galley, and stretch to the oar.
How Mac-Shimei will joy when their chief shall display The ewe-crested bonnet o'er tresses of grey! How the race of wronged Alpine and murdered 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-N
eil of the Islands, and Moy of the Lake, For honour, for freedom, for vengeance awake!
Here a large greyhound, bounding up the glen, jumped upon Flora, andinterrupted her music by his importunate caresses. At a distant whistle,he turned, and shot down the path again with the rapidity of an arrow.'That is Fergus's faithful attendant, Captain Waverley, and that was hissignal. He likes no poetry but what is humorous, and comes in good timeto interrupt my long catalogue of the tribes, whom one of your saucyEnglish poets calls
Our bootless host of high-born beggars, Mac-Leans, Mac-Kenzies, and Mac-Gregors.'
Waverley expressed his regret at the interruption.
'Oh, you cannot guess how much you have lost! The bard, as in dutybound, 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 always green--therider on the shining pampered steed, whose hue is like the raven, andwhose neigh is like the scream of the eagle for battle. This valianthorseman is affectionately conjured to remember that his ancestors weredistinguished by their loyalty, as well as by their courage.--All thisyou have lost; but, since your curiosity is not satisfied, I judge, fromthe distant sound of my brother's whistle, I may have time to sing theconcluding stanzas before he comes to laugh at my translation.'
Awake on your hills, on your islands awake, Brave sons of the mountain, the frith, and the lake! 'Tis the bugle--but not for the chase is the call; 'Tis the pibroch's shrill summons--but not to the hall.
'Tis 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!
