HIGHLAND MINSTRELSY
When the first salutations had passed, Fergus said to his sister, 'My
dear Flora, before I return to the barbarous ritual of our forefathers,
I must tell you that Captain Waverley is a worshipper of the Celtic
muse, not the less so perhaps that he does not understand a word of her
language. I have told him you are eminent as a translator of Highland
poetry, and that Mac-Murrough admires your version of his songs upon the
same principle that Captain Waverley admires the original,--because he
does not comprehend them. Will you have the goodness to read or recite
to our guest in English, the extraordinary string of names which
Mac-Murrough has tacked together in Gaelic?--My life to a moorfowl's
feather, you are provided with a version; for I know you are in all the
bard's councils, and acquainted with his songs long before he rehearses
them in the hall.'
'How can you say so, Fergus? You know how little these verses can
possibly interest an English stranger, even if I could translate them as
you pretend.'
'Not less than they interest me, lady fair. To-day your joint
composition, for I insist you had a share in it, has cost me the last
silver cup in the castle, and I suppose will cost me something else next
time I hold COUR PLENIERE, if the muse descends on Mac-Murrough; for
you know our proverb,--When the hand of the chief ceases to bestow, the
breath of the bard is frozen in the utterance.--Well, I would it were
even 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 dare
not imitate,--and a large goatskin purse without a louis d'or to put
into it.'
'Well, brother, since you betray my secrets, you cannot expect me to
keep yours.--I assure you, Captain Waverley, that Fergus is too proud
to exchange his broadsword for a marechal's baton; that he esteems
Mac-Murrough a far greater poet than Homer, and would not give up his
goat skin purse for all the louis d'or which it could contain.'
'Well pronounced, Flora; blow for blow, as Conan [See Note 19.] said to
the devil. Now do you two talk of bards and poetry, if not of purses and
claymores, while I return to do the final honours to the senators of the
tribe of Ivor.' So saying, he left the room.
The conversation continued between Flora, and Waverley; for two
well-dressed young women, whose character seemed to hover between that
of companions and dependants, took no share in it. They were both
pretty girls, but served only as foils to the grace and beauty of their
patroness. The discourse followed the turn which the Chieftain had given
it, and Waverley was equally amused and surprised with the account 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 the
chief amusement of a winter fireside in the Highlands. Some of these are
said to be very ancient, and if they are ever translated into any of the
languages of civilized Europe, cannot fail to produce a deep and general
sensation. Others are more modern, the composition of those family bards
whom the chieftains of more distinguished name and power retain as the
poets and historians of their tribes. These, of course, possess various
degrees of merit; but much of it must evaporate in translation, or be
lost on those who do not sympathize with the feelings of the poet.
'And your bard, whose effusions seemed to produce such effect upon
the company to-day,--is he reckoned among the favourite poets of the
mountain?'
'That is a trying question. His reputation is high among his countrymen,
and you must not expect me to depreciate it.' [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 'Highland
clans under their distinctive peculiarities, and an exhortation to them
to remember and to emulate the actions of their forefathers.'
'And am I wrong in conjecturing, however extraordinary the guess
appears, that there was some allusion to me in the verses which he
recited?'
'You have a quick observation, Captain Waverley, which in this instance
has not deceived you. The Gaelic language, being uncommonly vocalic,
is well adapted for sudden and extemporaneous poetry; and a bard seldom
fails to augment the effects of a premeditated song, by throwing in
any stanzas which may be suggested by the circumstances attending the
recitation.'
'I would give my best horse to know what the Highland bard could find 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 sent Una to learn from
the bard the expressions he used, and you shall command my skill as
dragoman.'
Una returned in a few minutes, and repeated to her mistress a few
lines in Gaelic. Flora seemed to think for a moment, and then, slightly
colouring, she turned to Waverley--'It is impossible to gratify your
curiosity, Captain Waverley, without exposing my own presumption. If
you will give me a few moments for consideration, I will endeavour to
engraft the meaning of these lines upon a rude English translation,
which I have attempted, of a part of the original. The duties of the
tea-table seem to be concluded, and, as the evening is delightful, Una
will show you the way to one of my 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 through which he had
entered the apartment. At a distance he heard the hall of the chief
still resounding with the clang of bagpipes and the high applause of
his guests. Having gained the open air by a postern door, they walked a
little way up the wild, bleak, and narrow valley in which the house was
situated, following the course of the stream that winded through it.
In a spot, about a quarter of a mile from the castle, two brooks, which
formed the little river, had their junction. The larger of the two came
down the long bare valley, which extended, apparently without any change
or elevation of character, as far as the hills which formed its boundary
permitted the eye to reach. But the other stream, which had its source
among the mountains on the left hand of the strath, seemed to 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 in dark blue pools;
but the motions of the lesser brook were rapid and furious, issuing from
between precipices, like a maniac from his confinement, all foam and
uproar.
It was up the course of this last stream that Waverley, like a knight of
romance, was conducted by the fair Highland damsel, his silent guide.
A small path, which had been rendered easy in many places for Flora's
accommodation, led him through scenery of a very different description
from 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. The
rocks assumed a thousand peculiar and varied forms. In one place, a
crag of huge size presented its gigantic bulk, as if to forbid the
passenger's farther progress; and it was not until he approached its
very base, that Waverley discerned the sudden and acute turn by which
the pathway wheeled its course around this formidable obstacle. In
another spot, the projecting rocks from the opposite sides of the chasm
had 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 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 single black
line, the small portion of blue sky not intercepted by the projecting
rocks on either side, it was with a sensation of horror that Waverley
beheld Flora and her attendant appear, like inhabitants of another
region, 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 relieved than when the fair
apparition passed on from the precarious eminence which she seemed to
occupy with so much indifference, and disappeared on the other side.
Advancing a few yards, and passing under the bridge which he had viewed
with so much terror, the path ascended rapidly from the edge of the
brook, and the glen widened into a sylvan amphitheatre, waving with
birch, young oaks, and hazels, with here and there a scattered yew-tree.
The rocks now receded, but still showed their grey and shaggy crests
rising among the copse-wood. Still higher, rose eminences and peaks,
some bare, some clothed with wood, some round and purple with heath, and
others splintered into rocks and crags. At a short turning, the path,
which had for some furlongs lost sight of the brook, suddenly placed
Waverley in front of a romantic waterfall. It was not so remarkable
either for great height or quantity of water, as for the beautiful
accompaniments which made the spot interesting. After a broken cataract
of about twenty feet, the stream was received in a large natural basin
filled to the brim with water, which, where the bubbles of the fall
subsided, was so exquisitely clear, that, although it was of great
depth, the eye could discern each pebble at the bottom. Eddying round
this 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 had
polished for ages, it wandered murmuring down the glen, forming the
stream up which Waverley had just ascended. [See Note 20.] The borders
of this romantic reservoir corresponded in beauty; but it was beauty
of a stern and commanding cast, as if in the act of expanding into
grandeur. Mossy banks of turf were broken and interrupted by huge
fragments of rock, and decorated with trees and shrubs, some of which
had been planted under the direction of Flora, but so cautiously, that
they added to the grace, without diminishing the romantic wildness of
the scene.
Here, like one of those lovely forms which decorate the landscapes
of Poussin, Waverley found Flora, gazing on the waterfall. Two paces
further back stood Cathleen, holding a small Scottish harp, the use of
which had been taught to Flora by Rory Dall, one of the last harpers of
the Western Highlands. The sun, now stooping in the west, gave a rich
and varied tinge to all the objects which surrounded Waverley, and
seemed to add more than human brilliancy to the full expressive darkness
of Flora's eye, exalted the richness and purity of her complexion, and
enhanced the dignity and grace of her beautiful form. Edward thought
he had never, even in his wildest dreams, imagined a figure of such
exquisite and interesting loveliness. The wild beauty of the retreat,
bursting upon him as if by magic, augmented the mingled feeling of
delight and awe with which he approached her, like a fair enchantress of
Boiardo or Ariosto, by whose nod the scenery around seemed to have been
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 from the
respectful, yet confused address of the young soldier. But, as she
possessed excellent sense, she gave the romance of the scene, and other
accidental circumstances, full weight in appreciating the feelings with
which Waverley seemed obviously to be impressed; and, unacquainted with
the fanciful and susceptible peculiarities of his character, considered
his homage as the passing tribute which a woman of even inferior charms
might have expected in such a situation. She therefore quietly led the
way to a spot at such a distance from the cascade, that its sound should
rather accompany than interrupt that of her voice and instrument, and,
sitting down upon a mossy fragment of rock, she took the harp from
Cathleen.
'I have given you the trouble of walking to this spot, Captain Waverley,
both because I thought the scenery would interest you, and because a
Highland song would suffer still more from my imperfect translation,
were I to introduce it without its own wild and appropriate
accompaniments. To speak in the poetical language of my country, the
seat 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 her
must love the barren rock more than the fertile valley, and the solitude
of the desert better than the festivity of the hall.'
Few could have heard this lovely woman make this declaration, with a
voice where harmony was exalted by pathos, without exclaiming that
the muse whom she invoked could never find a more appropriate
representative. But Waverley, though the thought rushed on his mind,
found no courage to utter it. Indeed, the wild feeling of romantic
delight with which he heard the first few notes she drew from her
instrument, amounted almost to a sense of pain. He would not for worlds
have quitted his place by her side; yet he almost longed for solitude,
that he might decipher and examine at leisure the complication of
emotions which now agitated his bosom.
Flora had exchanged the measured and monotonous recitative of the bard
for a lofty and uncommon Highland air, which had been a battle-song in
former ages. A few irregular strains introduced a prelude of a wild and
peculiar tone, which harmonized well with the distant waterfall, and the
soft sigh of the evening breeze in the rustling leaves of an aspen which
overhung the seat of the fair harpress. The following verses convey but
little idea of the feelings with which, so sung and accompanied, 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 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-Neil 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, and
interrupted 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 his
signal. He likes no poetry but what is humorous, and comes in good time
to interrupt my long catalogue of the tribes, whom one of your saucy
English 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 duty
bound, has addressed three long stanzas to Vich Ian Vohr of the Banners,
enumerating all his great properties, and not forgetting his being a
cheerer of the harper and bard,--"a giver of bounteous gifts." Besides,
you should have heard a practical admonition to the fair-haired son of
the stranger, who lives in the land where the grass is always green--the
rider on the shining pampered steed, whose hue is like the raven, and
whose neigh is like the scream of the eagle for battle. This valiant
horseman is affectionately conjured to remember that his ancestors were
distinguished by their loyalty, as well as by their courage.--All this
you have lost; but, since your curiosity is not satisfied, I judge, from
the distant sound of my brother's whistle, I may have time to sing the
concluding 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!