THE BANQUET
The entertainment was ample and handsome, according to the Scotch
ideas of the period, and the guests did great honour to it. The
Baron eat like a famished soldier, the Laird of Balmawhapple like
a sportsman, Bullsegg of Killancureit like a farmer, Waverley
himself like a traveller, and Bailie Macwheeble like all four
together; though, either out of more respect, or in order to
preserve that proper declination of person which showed a sense
that he was in the presence of his patron, he sat upon the edge of
his chair, placed at three feet distance from the table, and
achieved a communication with his plate by projecting his person
towards it in a line which obliqued from the bottom of his spine,
so that the person who sat opposite to him could only see the
foretop of his riding periwig.
This stooping position might have been inconvenient to another
person; but long habit made it, whether seated or walking,
perfectly easy to the worthy Bailie. In the latter posture it
occasioned, no doubt, an unseemly projection of the person towards
those who happened to walk behind; but those being at all times
his inferiors (for Mr. Macwheeble was very scrupulous in giving
place to all others), he cared very little what inference of
contempt or slight regard they might derive from the circumstance.
Hence, when he waddled across the court to and from his old grey
pony, he somewhat resembled a turnspit walking upon its hind legs.
The nonjuring clergyman was a pensive and interesting old man,
with much of the air of a sufferer for conscience' sake. He was
one of those
Who, undeprived, their benefice forsook.
For this whim, when the Baron was out of hearing, the Bailie used
sometimes gently to rally Mr. Rubrick, upbraiding him with the
nicety of his scruples. Indeed, it must be owned, that he himself,
though at heart a keen partisan of the exiled family, had kept
pretty fair with all the different turns of state in his time; so
that Davie Gellatley once described him as a particularly good
man, who had a very quiet and peaceful conscience, THAT NEVER DID
HIM ANY HARM.
When the dinner was removed, the Baron announced the health of the
King, politely leaving to the consciences of his guests to drink
to the sovereign de facto or de jure, as their politics inclined.
The conversation now became general; and, shortly afterwards, Miss
Bradwardine, who had done the honours with natural grace and
simplicity, retired, and was soon followed by the clergyman. Among
the rest of the party, the wine, which fully justified the
encomiums of the landlord, flowed freely round, although Waverley,
with some difficulty, obtained the privilege of sometimes
neglecting the glass. At length, as the evening grew more late,
the Baron made a private signal to Mr. Saunders Saunderson, or, as
he facetiously denominated him, Alexander ab Alexandro, who left
the room with a nod, and soon after returned, his grave
countenance mantling with a solemn and mysterious smile, and
placed before his master a small oaken casket, mounted with brass
ornaments of curious form. The Baron, drawing out a private key,
unlocked the casket, raised the lid, and produced a golden goblet
of a singular and antique appearance, moulded into the shape of a
rampant bear, which the owner regarded with a look of mingled
reverence, pride, and delight, that irresistibly reminded Waverley
of Ben Jonson's Tom Otter, with his Bull, Horse, and Dog, as that
wag wittily denominated his chief carousing cups. But Mr.
Bradwardine, turning towards him with complacency, requested him
to observe this curious relic of the olden time.
'It represents,' he said, 'the chosen crest of our family, a bear,
as ye observe, and RAMPANT; because a good herald will depict
every animal in its noblest posture, as a horse SALIENT, a
greyhound CURRANT, and, as may be inferred, a ravenous animal in
actu ferociori, or in a voracious, lacerating, and devouring
posture. Now, sir, we hold this most honourable achievement by the
wappen-brief, or concession of arms, of Frederick Red-beard,
Emperor of Germany, to my predecessor, Godmund Bradwardine, it
being the crest of a gigantic Dane, whom he slew in the lists in
the Holy Land, on a quarrel touching the chastity of the emperor's
spouse or daughter, tradition saith not precisely which, and thus,
as Virgilius hath it--
Mutemus clypeos, Danaumque insignia nobis
Aptemus.
Then for the cup, Captain Waverley, it was wrought by the command
of Saint Duthac, Abbot of Aberbrothock, for behoof of another
baron of the house of Bradwardine, who had valiantly defended the
patrimony of that monastery against certain encroaching nobles. It
is properly termed the Blessed Bear of Bradwardine (though old
Doctor Doubleit used jocosely to call it Ursa Major), and was
supposed, in old and Catholic times, to be invested with certain
properties of a mystical and supernatural quality. And though I
give not in to such anilia, it is certain it has always been
esteemed a solemn standard cup and heirloom of our house; nor is
it ever used but upon seasons of high festival, and such I hold to
be the arrival of the heir of Sir Everard under my roof; and I
devote this draught to the health and prosperity of the ancient
and highly-to-be-honoured house of Waverley.'
During this long harangue, he carefully decanted a cob-webbed
bottle of claret into the goblet, which held nearly an English
pint; and, at the conclusion, delivering the bottle to the butler,
to be held carefully in the same angle with the horizon, he
devoutly quaffed off the contents of the Blessed Bear of
Bradwardine.
Edward, with horror and alarm, beheld the animal making his
rounds, and thought with great anxiety upon the appropriate motto,
'Beware the Bear'; but, at the same time, plainly foresaw that, as
none of the guests scrupled to do him this extraordinary honour, a
refusal on his part to pledge their courtesy would be extremely
ill received. Resolving, therefore, to submit to this last piece
of tyranny, and then to quit the table, if possible, and confiding
in the strength of his constitution, he did justice to the company
in the contents of the Blessed Bear, and felt less inconvenience
from the draught than he could possibly have expected. The others,
whose time had been more actively employed, began to show symptoms
of innovation--'the good wine did its good office.' [Footnote:
Southey's Madoc.] The frost of etiquette and pride of birth began
to give way before the genial blessings of this benign
constellation, and the formal appellatives with which the three
dignitaries had hitherto addressed each other were now familiarly
abbreviated into Tully, Bally, and Killie. When a few rounds had
passed, the two latter, after whispering together, craved
permission (a joyful hearing for Edward) to ask the grace-cup.
This, after some delay, was at length produced, and Waverley
concluded the orgies of Bacchus were terminated for the evening.
He was never more mistaken in his life.
As the guests had left their horses at the small inn, or change-
house, as it was called, of the village, the Baron could not, in
politeness, avoid walking with them up the avenue, and Waverley
from the same motive, and to enjoy after this feverish revel the
cool summer evening, attended the party. But when they arrived at
Luckie Macleary's the Lairds of Balmawhapple and Killancureit
declared their determination to acknowledge their sense of the
hospitality of Tully-Veolan by partaking, with their entertainer
and his guest Captain Waverley, what they technically called deoch
an doruis, a stirrup-cup, [Footnote 2: See Note 10] to the honour
of the Baron's roof-tree.
It must be noticed that the Bailie, knowing by experience that the
day's jovialty, which had been hitherto sustained at the expense
of his patron, might terminate partly at his own, had mounted his
spavined grey pony, and, between gaiety of heart and alarm for
being hooked into a reckoning, spurred him into a hobbling canter
(a trot was out of the question), and had already cleared the
village. The others entered the change-house, leading Edward in
unresisting submission; for his landlord whispered him, that to
demur to such an overture would be construed into a high
misdemeanour against the leges conviviales, or regulations of
genial compotation. Widow Macleary seemed to have expected this
visit, as well she might, for it was the usual consummation of
merry bouts, not only at Tully-Veolan, but at most other
gentlemen's houses in Scotland, Sixty Years Since. The guests
thereby at once acquitted themselves of their burden of gratitude
for their entertainer's kindness, encouraged the trade of his
change-house, did honour to the place which afforded harbour to
their horses, and indemnified themselves for the previous
restraints imposed by private hospitality, by spending what
Falstaff calls the sweet of the night in the genial license of a
tavern.
Accordingly, in full expectation of these distinguished guests,
Luckie Macleary had swept her house for the first time this
fortnight, tempered her turf-fire to such a heat as the season
required in her damp hovel even at Midsummer, set forth her deal
table newly washed, propped its lame foot with a fragment of turf,
arranged four or five stools of huge and clumsy form upon the
sites which best suited the inequalities of her clay floor; and
having, moreover, put on her clean toy, rokelay, and scarlet
plaid, gravely awaited the arrival of the company, in full hope of
custom and profit. When they were seated under the sooty rafters
of Luckie Macleary's only apartment, thickly tapestried with
cobwebs, their hostess, who had already taken her cue from the
Laird of Balmawhapple, appeared with a huge pewter measuring-pot,
containing at least three English quarts, familiarly denominated a
Tappit Hen, and which, in the language of the hostess, reamed
(i.e., mantled) with excellent claret just drawn from the cask.
It was soon plain that what crumbs of reason the Bear had not
devoured were to be picked up by the Hen; but the confusion which
appeared to prevail favoured Edward's resolution to evade the
gaily circling glass. The others began to talk thick and at once,
each performing his own part in the conversation without the least
respect to his neighbour. The Baron of Bradwardine sung French
chansons-a-boire, and spouted pieces of Latin; Killancureit
talked, in a steady unalterable dull key, of top-dressing and
bottom-dressing, [Footnote: This has been censured as an
anachronism; and it must be confessed that agriculture of this
kind was unknown to the Scotch Sixty Years Since.] and year-olds,
and gimmers, and dinmonts, and stots, and runts, and kyloes, and a
proposed turnpike-act; while Balmawhapple, in notes exalted above
both, extolled his horse, his hawks, and a greyhound called
Whistler. In the middle of this din, the Baron repeatedly implored
silence; and when at length the instinct of polite discipline so
far prevailed that for a moment he obtained it, he hastened to
beseech their attention 'unto a military ariette, which was a
particular favourite of the Marechal Duc de Berwick'; then,
imitating, as well as he could, the manner and tone of a French
musquetaire, he immediately commenced,--
Mon coeur volage, dit elle,
N'est pas pour vous, garcon;
Est pour un homme de guerre,
Qui a barbe au menton.
Lon, Lon, Laridon.
Qui port chapeau a plume,
Soulier a rouge talon,
Qui joue de la flute,
Aussi du violon.
Lon, Lon, Laridon.
Balmawhapple could hold no longer, but broke in with what he
called a d--d good song, composed by Gibby Gaethroughwi't, the
piper of Cupar; and, without wasting more time, struck up,--
It's up Glenbarchan's braes I gaed,
And o'er the bent of Killiebraid,
And mony a weary cast I made,
To cuittle the moor-fowl's tail.
[Footnote: Suum cuique. This snatch of a ballad was composed by
Andrew MacDonald, the ingenious and unfortunate author of
Vimonda.]
The Baron, whose voice was drowned in the louder and more
obstreperous strains of Balmawhapple, now dropped the competition,
but continued to hum 'Lon, Lon, Laridon,' and to regard the
successful candidate for the attention of the company with an eye
of disdain, while Balmawhapple proceeded,--
If up a bonny black-cock should spring,
To whistle him down wi' a slug in his wing,
And strap him on to my lunzie string,
Right seldom would I fail.
After an ineffectual attempt to recover the second verse, he sung
the first over again; and, in prosecution of his triumph, declared
there was 'more sense in that than in all the derry-dongs of
France, and Fifeshire to the boot of it.' The Baron only answered
with a long pinch of snuff and a glance of infinite contempt. But
those noble allies, the Bear and the Hen, had emancipated the
young laird from the habitual reverence in which he held
Bradwardine at other times. He pronounced the claret shilpit, and
demanded brandy with great vociferation. It was brought; and now
the Demon of Politics envied even the harmony arising from this
Dutch concert, merely because there was not a wrathful note in the
strange compound of sounds which it produced. Inspired by her, the
Laird of Balmawhapple, now superior to the nods and winks with
which the Baron of Bradwardine, in delicacy to Edward, had
hitherto checked his entering upon political discussion, demanded
a bumper, with the lungs of a Stentor, 'to the little gentleman in
black velvet who did such service in 1702, and may the white horse
break his neck over a mound of his making!'
Edward was not at that moment clear-headed enough to remember that
King William's fall, which occasioned his death, was said to be
owing to his horse stumbling at a mole-hill; yet felt inclined to
take umbrage at a toast which seemed, from the glance of
Balmawhapple's eye, to have a peculiar and uncivil reference to
the Government which he served. But, ere he could interfere, the
Baron of Bradwardine had taken up the quarrel. 'Sir,' he said,
'whatever my sentiments tanquam privatus may be in such matters, I
shall not tamely endure your saying anything that may impinge upon
the honourable feelings of a gentleman under my roof. Sir, if you
have no respect for the laws of urbanity, do ye not respect the
military oath, the sacramentum militare, by which every officer is
bound to the standards under which he is enrolled? Look at Titus
Livius, what he says of those Roman soldiers who were so unhappy
as exuere sacramentum, to renounce their legionary oath; but you
are ignorant, sir, alike of ancient history and modern courtesy.'
'Not so ignorant as ye would pronounce me,' roared Balmawhapple.
'I ken weel that you mean the Solemn League and Covenant; but if
a' the Whigs in hell had taken the--'
Here the Baron and Waverley both spoke at once, the former calling
out, 'Be silent, sir! ye not only show your ignorance, but
disgrace your native country before a stranger and an Englishman';
and Waverley, at the same moment, entreating Mr. Bradwardine to
permit him to reply to an affront which seemed levelled at him
personally. But the Baron was exalted by wine, wrath, and scorn
above all sublunary considerations.
'I crave you to be hushed, Captain Waverley; you are elsewhere,
peradventure, sui juris,--foris-familiated, that is, and entitled,
it may be, to think and resent for yourself; but in my domain, in
this poor Barony of Bradwardine, and under this roof, which is
quasi mine, being held by tacit relocation by a tenant at will, I
am in loco parentis to you, and bound to see you scathless. And
for you, Mr. Falconer of Balmawhapple, I warn ye, let me see no
more aberrations from the paths of good manners.'
'And I tell you, Mr. Cosmo Comyne Bradwardine of Bradwardine and
Tully-Veolan,' retorted the sportsman in huge disdain, 'that I'll
make a moor-cock of the man that refuses my toast, whether it be a
crop-eared English Whig wi' a black ribband at his lug, or ane wha
deserts his ain friends to claw favour wi' the rats of Hanover.'
In an instant both rapiers were brandished, and some desperate
passes exchanged. Balmawhapple was young, stout, and active; but
the Baron, infinitely more master of his weapon, would, like Sir
Toby Belch, have tickled his opponent other gates than he did had
he not been under the influence of Ursa Major.
Edward rushed forward to interfere between the combatants, but the
prostrate bulk of the Laird of Killancureit, over which he
stumbled, intercepted his passage. How Killancureit happened to be
in this recumbent posture at so interesting a moment was never
accurately known. Some thought he was about to insconce himself
under the table; he himself alleged that he stumbled in the act of
lifting a joint-stool, to prevent mischief, by knocking down
Balmawhapple. Be that as it may, if readier aid than either his or
Waverley's had not interposed, there would certainly have been
bloodshed. But the well-known clash of swords, which was no
stranger to her dwelling, aroused Luckie Macleary as she sat
quietly beyond the hallan, or earthen partition of the cottage,
with eyes employed on Boston's 'Crook the Lot,' while her ideas
were engaged in summing up the reckoning. She boldly rushed in,
with the shrill expostulation, 'Wad their honours slay ane another
there, and bring discredit on an honest widow-woman's house, when
there was a' the lee-land in the country to fight upon?' a
remonstrance which she seconded by flinging her plaid with great
dexterity over the weapons of the combatants. The servants by this
time rushed in, and being, by great chance, tolerably sober,
separated the incensed opponents, with the assistance of Edward
and Killancureit. The latter led off Balmawhapple, cursing,
swearing, and vowing revenge against every Whig, Presbyterian, and
fanatic in England and Scotland, from John-o'-Groat's to the
Land's End, and with difficulty got him to horse. Our hero, with
the assistance of Saunders Saunderson, escorted the Baron of
Bradwardine to his own dwelling, but could not prevail upon him to
retire to bed until he had made a long and learned apology for the
events of the evening, of which, however, there was not a word
intelligible, except something about the Centaurs and the
Lapithae.