CHAPTER XXII
HIGHLAND MINSTRELSY
When the first salutations had passed, Fergus said to his sister,'My dear Flora, before I return to the barbarous ritual of ourforefathers, I must tell you that Captain Waverley is a worshipperof the Celtic muse, not the less so perhaps that he does notunderstand a word of her language. I have told him you are eminentas a translator of Highland poetry, and that Mac-Murrough admiresyour version of his songs upon the same principle that CaptainWaverley admires the original,--because he does not comprehendthem. Will you have the goodness to read or recite to our guest inEnglish the extraordinary string of names which Mac-Murrough hastacked together in Gaelic? My life to a moor-fowl's feather, youare provided with a version; for I know you are in all the bard'scouncils, 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 translatethem as 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 thelast silver cup in the castle, and I suppose will cost mesomething else next time I hold cour pleniere, if the musedescends on Mac-Murrough; for you know our proverb,--"When thehand of the chief ceases to bestow, the breath of the bard isfrozen in the utterance."--Well, I would it were even so: thereare three things that are useless to a modern Highlander,--asword which he must not draw, a bard to sing of deeds which hedare not imitate, and a large goat-skin purse without a louis-d'orto put into it.'
'Well, brother, since you betray my secrets, you cannot expect meto keep yours. I assure you, Captain Waverley, that Fergus is tooproud to exchange his broadsword for a marechal's baton, that heesteems Mac-Murrough a far greater poet than Homer, and would notgive up his goat-skin purse for all the louis-d'or which it couldcontain.'
'Well pronounced, Flora; blow for blow, as Conan [Footnote: SeeNote 23.] said to the devil. Now do you two talk of bards andpoetry, if not of purses and claymores, while I return to do thefinal honours to the senators of the tribe of Ivor.' So saying, heleft the room.
The conversation continued between Flora and Waverley; for twowell-dressed young women, whose character seemed to hover betweenthat of companions and dependants, took no share in it. They wereboth pretty girls, but served only as foils to the grace andbeauty of their patroness. The discourse followed the turn whichthe Chieftain had given it, and Waverley was equally amused andsurprised with the account which the lady gave him of Celticpoetry.
'The recitation,' she said, 'of poems recording the feats ofheroes, the complaints of lovers, and the wars of contendingtribes, forms the chief amusement of a winter fire-side in theHighlands. Some of these are said to be very ancient, and if theyare ever translated into any of the languages of civilised Europe,cannot fail to produce a deep and general sensation. Others aremore modern, the composition of those family bards whom thechieftains of more distinguished name and power retain as thepoets and historians of their tribes. These, of course, possessvarious 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 uponthe company to-day, is he reckoned among the favourite poets ofthe mountains?'
'That is a trying question. His reputation is high among hiscountrymen, and you must not expect me to depreciate it.[Footnote: The Highland poet almost always was an improvisatore.Captain Burt met one of them at Lovat's table.]
'But the song, Miss Mac-Ivor, seemed to awaken all those warriors,both young and old.'
'The song is little more than a catalogue of names of the Highlandclans under their distinctive peculiarities, and an exhortation tothem to 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 thisinstance has not deceived you. The Gaelic language, beinguncommonly vocalic, is well adapted for sudden and extemporaneouspoetry; and a bard seldom fails to augment the effects of apremeditated song by throwing in any stanzas which may besuggested by the circumstances attending the recitation.'
'I would give my best horse to know what the Highland bard couldfind to say of such an unworthy Southron as myself.'
'It shall not even cost you a lock of his mane. Una, mavourneen!(She spoke a few words to one of the young girls in attendance,who instantly curtsied and tripped out of the room.) I have sentUna to learn from the bard the expressions he used, and you shallcommand my skill as dragoman.'
Una returned in a few minutes, and repeated to her mistress a fewlines in Gaelic. Flora seemed to think for a moment, and then,slightly colouring, she turned to Waverley--'It is impossible togratify your curiosity, Captain Waverley, without exposing my ownpresumption. If you will give me a few moments for consideration,I will endeavour to engraft the meaning of these lines upon a rudeEnglish translation which I have attempted of a part of theoriginal. The duties of the tea-table seem to be concluded, and,as the evening is delightful, Una will show you the way to one ofmy favourite haunts, and Cathleen and I will join you there.'
Una, having received instructions in her native language,conducted Waverley out by a passage different from that throughwhich he had entered the apartment. At a distance he heard thehall of the Chief still resounding with the clang of bagpipes andthe high applause of his guests. Having gained the open air by apostern door, they walked a little way up the wild, bleak, andnarrow valley in which the house was situated, following thecourse of the stream that winded through it. In a spot, about aquarter of a mile from the castle, two brooks, which formed thelittle river, had their junction. The larger of the two came downthe long bare valley, which extended, apparently without anychange or elevation of character, as far as the hills which formedits boundary permitted the eye to reach. But the other stream,which had its source among the mountains on the left hand of thestrath, seemed to issue from a very narrow and dark openingbetwixt two large rocks. These streams were different also incharacter. The larger was placid, and even sullen in its course,wheeling in deep eddies, or sleeping in dark blue pools; but themotions of the lesser brook were rapid and furious, issuing frombetween precipices, like a maniac from his confinement, all foamand uproar.
It was up the course of this last stream that Waverley, like aknight of romance, was conducted by the fair Highland damsel, hissilent guide. A small path, which had been rendered easy in manyplaces for Flora's accommodation, led him through scenery of avery different description from that which he had just quitted.Around the castle all was cold, bare, and desolate, yet tame evenin desolation; but this narrow glen, at so short a distance,seemed to open into the land of romance. The rocks assumed athousand peculiar and varied forms. In one place a crag of hugesize presented its gigantic bulk, as if to forbid the passenger'sfarther progress; and it was not until he approached its very basethat Waverley discerned the sudden and acute turn by which thepathway wheeled its course around this formidable obstacle. Inanother spot the projecting rocks from the opposite sides of thechasm had approached so near to each other that two pine-treeslaid across, and covered with turf, formed a rustic bridge at theheight of at least one hundred and fifty feet. It had no ledges,and was barely three feet in breadth.
While gazing at this pass of peril, which crossed, like a singleblack line, the small portion of blue sky not intercepted by theprojecting rocks on either side, it was with a sensation of horrorthat Waverley beheld Flora and her attendant appear, likeinhabitants of another region, propped, as it were, in mid air,upon this trembling structure. She stopped upon observing himbelow, 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, toreturn the salute; and was never more relieved
than when the fairapparition passed on from the precarious eminence which she seemedto occupy with so much indifference, and disappeared on the otherside.
Advancing a few yards, and passing under the bridge which he hadviewed with so much terror, the path ascended rapidly from theedge of the brook, and the glen widened into a sylvanamphitheatre, waving with birch, young oaks, and hazels, with hereand there a scattered yew-tree. The rocks now receded, but stillshowed their grey and shaggy crests rising among the copse-wood.Still higher rose eminences and peaks, some bare, some clothedwith wood, some round and purple with heath, and others splinteredinto rocks and crags. At a short turning the path, which had forsome furlongs lost sight of the brook, suddenly placed Waverley infront of a romantic waterfall. It was not so remarkable either forgreat height or quantity of water as for the beautifulaccompaniments which made the spot interesting. After a brokencataract of about twenty feet, the stream was received in a largenatural basin filled to the brim with water, which, where thebubbles of the fall subsided, was so exquisitely clear that,although it was of great depth, the eye could discern each pebbleat the bottom. Eddying round this reservoir, the brook found itsway as if over a broken part of the ledge, and formed a secondfall, which seemed to seek the very abyss; then, wheeling outbeneath from among the smooth dark rocks which it had polished forages, it wandered murmuring down the glen, forming the stream upwhich Waverley had just ascended. [Footnote: See Note 24.] Theborders of this romantic reservoir corresponded in beauty; but itwas beauty of a stern and commanding cast, as if in the act ofexpanding into grandeur. Mossy banks of turf were broken andinterrupted by huge fragments of rock, and decorated with treesand shrubs, some of which had been planted under the direction ofFlora, but so cautiously that they added to the grace withoutdiminishing the romantic wildness of the scene.
Here, like one of those lovely forms which decorate the landscapesof Poussin, Waverley found Flora gazing on the waterfall. Twopaces further back stood Cathleen, holding a small Scottish harp,the use of which had been taught to Flora by Rory Dall, one of thelast harpers of the Western Highlands. The sun, now stooping inthe west, gave a rich and varied tinge to all the objects whichsurrounded Waverley, and seemed to add more than human brilliancyto the full expressive darkness of Flora's eye, exalted therichness and purity of her complexion, and enhanced the dignityand grace of her beautiful form. Edward thought he had never, evenin his wildest dreams, imagined a figure of such exquisite andinteresting loveliness. The wild beauty of the retreat, burstingupon him as if by magic, augmented the mingled feeling of delightand awe with which he approached her, like a fair enchantress ofBoiardo or Ariosto, by whose nod the scenery around seemed to havebeen created 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 fromthe respectful yet confused address of the young soldier. But, asshe possessed excellent sense, she gave the romance of the sceneand other accidental circumstances full weight in appreciating thefeelings with which Waverley seemed obviously to be impressed;and, unacquainted with the fanciful and susceptible peculiaritiesof his character, considered his homage as the passing tributewhich a woman of even inferior charms might have expected in sucha situation. She therefore quietly led the way to a spot at such adistance from the cascade that its sound should rather accompanythan interrupt that of her voice and instrument, and, sitting downupon a mossy fragment of rock, she took the harp from Cathleen.
'I have given you the trouble of walking to this spot, CaptainWaverley, both because I thought the scenery would interest you,and because a Highland song would suffer still more from myimperfect translation were I to introduce it without its own wildand appropriate accompaniments. To speak in the poetical languageof my country, the seat of the Celtic Muse is in the mist of thesecret and solitary hill, and her voice in the murmur of themountain stream. He who woos her must love the barren rock morethan the fertile valley, and the solitude of the desert betterthan the festivity of the hall.'
Few could have heard this lovely woman make this declaration, witha voice where harmony was exalted by pathos, without exclaimingthat the muse whom she invoked could never find a more appropriaterepresentative. But Waverley, though the thought rushed on hismind, found no courage to utter it. Indeed, the wild feeling ofromantic delight with which he heard the few first notes she drewfrom her instrument amounted almost to a sense of pain. He wouldnot for worlds have quitted his place by her side; yet he almostlonged for solitude, that he might decipher and examine at leisurethe complication of emotions which now agitated his bosom.
Flora had exchanged the measured and monotonous recitative of thebard for a lofty and uncommon Highland air, which had been abattle-song in former ages. A few irregular strains introduced aprelude of a wild and peculiar tone, which harmonised well withthe distant waterfall, and the soft sigh of the evening breeze inthe rustling leaves of an aspen, which overhung the seat of thefair harpress. The following verses convey but little idea of thefeelings with which, so sung and accompanied, they were heard byWaverley:--
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, landedat Glenaladale, in Moidart, and displayed his standard in thevalley of Glenfinnan, mustering around it the Mac-Donalds, theCamerons, and other less numerous clans, whom he had prevailed onto join him. There is a monument erected on the spot, with a Latininscription by the late Doctor 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 freedom, for vengea
nce awake!
Here a large greyhound, bounding up the glen, jumped upon Floraand interrupted her music by his importunate caresses. At adistant whistle he turned and shot down the path again with therapidity of an arrow. 'That is Fergus's faithful attendant,Captain Waverley, and that was his signal. He likes no poetry butwhat is humorous, and comes in good time to interrupt my longcatalogue of the tribes, whom one of your saucy English poetscalls
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 dutybound, has addressed three long stanzas to Vich Ian Vohr of theBanners, enumerating all his great properties, and not forgettinghis being a cheerer of the harper and bard--"a giver of bounteousgifts." Besides, you should have heard a practical admonition tothe fair-haired son of the stranger, who lives in the land wherethe grass is always green--the rider on the shining pamperedsteed, whose hue is like the raven, and whose neigh is like thescream of the eagle for battle. This valiant horseman isaffectionately conjured to remember that his ancestors weredistinguished by their loyalty as well as by their courage. Allthis you have lost; but, since your curiosity is not satisfied, Ijudge, from the distant sound of my brother's whistle, I may havetime to sing the concluding stanzas before he comes to laugh at mytranslation.'
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!