What want these outlaws conquerors should have
But history’s purchased page to call them great,
A wider space, an ornamented grave?
Their hopes were not less warm, their souls were full as brave.
BYRON.
The funeral obsequies being over, the same flotilla which had proceeded
in solemn and sad array down the lake prepared to return with displayed
banners, and every demonstration of mirth and joy; for there was but
brief time to celebrate festivals when the awful conflict betwixt the
Clan Quhele and their most formidable rivals so nearly approached. It
had been agreed, therefore, that the funeral feast should be blended
with that usually given at the inauguration of the young chief.
Some objections were made to this arrangement, as containing an evil
omen. But, on the other hand, it had a species of recommendation, from
the habits and feelings of the Highlanders, who, to this day, are wont
to mingle a degree of solemn mirth with their mourning, and something
resembling melancholy with their mirth. The usual aversion to speak
or think of those who have been beloved and lost is less known to this
grave and enthusiastic race than it is to others. You hear not only the
young mention (as is everywhere usual) the merits and the character of
parents, who have, in the course of nature, predeceased them; but the
widowed partner speaks, in ordinary conversation, of the lost spouse,
and, what is still stranger, the parents allude frequently to the beauty
or valour of the child whom they have interred. The Scottish Highlanders
appear to regard the separation of friends by death as something less
absolute and complete than it is generally esteemed in other countries,
and converse of the dear connexions who have sought the grave before
them as if they had gone upon a long journey in which they themselves
must soon follow. The funeral feast, therefore, being a general custom
throughout Scotland, was not, in the opinion of those who were to share
it, unseemingly mingled, on the present occasion, with the festivities
which hailed the succession to the chieftainship.
The barge which had lately borne the dead to the grave now conveyed
the young MacIan to his new command and the minstrels sent forth their
gayest notes to gratulate Eachin’s succession, as they had lately
sounded their most doleful dirges when carrying Gilchrist to his grave.
From the attendant flotilla rang notes of triumph and jubilee, instead
of those yells of lamentation which had so lately disturbed the echoes
of Loch Tay; and a thousand voices hailed the youthful chieftain as he
stood on the poop, armed at all points, in the flower of early manhood,
beauty, and activity, on the very spot where his father’s corpse had so
lately been extended, and surrounded by triumphant friends, as that had
been by desolate mourners.
One boat kept closest of the flotilla to the honoured galley. Torquil
of the Oak, a grizzled giant, was steersman; and his eight sons, each
exceeding the ordinary stature of mankind, pulled the oars. Like some
powerful and favourite wolf hound, unloosed from his couples, and
frolicking around a liberal master, the boat of the foster brethren
passed the chieftain’s barge, now on one side and now on another, and
even rowed around it, as if in extravagance of joy; while, at the same
time, with the jealous vigilance of the animal we have compared it to,
they made it dangerous for any other of the flotilla to approach so near
as themselves, from the risk of being run down by their impetuous
and reckless manoeuvres. Raised to an eminent rank in the clan by the
succession of their foster brother to the command of the Clan Quhele,
this was the tumultuous and almost terrible mode in which they testified
their peculiar share in their chief’s triumph.
Far behind, and with different feelings, on the part of one at least of
the company, came the small boat in which, manned by the Booshalloch and
one of his sons, Simon Glover was a passenger.
“If we are bound for the head of the lake,” said Simon to his friend,
“we shall hardly be there for hours.”
But as he spoke the crew of the boat of the foster brethren, or
leichtach, on a signal from the chief’s galley, lay on their oars until
the Booshalloch’s boat came up, and throwing on board a rope of hides,
which Niel made fast to the head of his skiff, they stretched to their
oars once more, and, notwithstanding they had the small boat in tow,
swept through the lake with almost the same rapidity as before. The
skiff was tugged on with a velocity which seemed to hazard the pulling
her under water, or the separation of her head from her other timbers.
Simon Glover saw with anxiety the reckless fury of their course, and the
bows of the boat occasionally brought within an inch or two of the level
of the water; and though his friend, Niel Booshalloch, assured him it
was all done in especial honour, he heartily wished his voyage might
have a safe termination. It had so, and much sooner than he apprehended;
for the place of festivity was not four miles distant from the
sepulchral island, being chosen to suit the chieftain’s course, which
lay to the southeast, so soon as the banquet should be concluded. A
bay on the southern side of Loch Tay presented a beautiful beach of
sparkling sand, on which the boats might land with ease, and a dry
meadow, covered with turf, verdant considering the season, behind and
around which rose high banks, fringed with copsewood, and displaying the
lavish preparations which had been made for the entertainment.
The Highlanders, well known for ready hatchet men, had constructed a
long arbour or silvan banqueting room, capable of receiving two hundred
men, while a number of smaller huts around seemed intended for sleeping
apartments. The uprights, the couples, and roof tree of the temporary
hall were composed of mountain pine, still covered with its bark. The
framework of the sides was of planks or spars of the same material,
closely interwoven with the leafy boughs of the fir and other
evergreens, which the neighbouring woods afforded, while the hills had
furnished plenty of heath to form the roof. Within this silvan palace
the most important personages present were invited to hold high
festival. Others of less note were to feast in various long sheds
constructed with less care; and tables of sod, or rough planks, placed
in the open air, were allotted to the numberless multitude. At a
distance were to be seen piles of glowing charcoal or blazing wood,
around which countless cooks toiled, bustled, and fretted, like so many
demons working in their native element. Pits, wrought in the hillside,
and lined with heated stones, served as ovens for stewing immense
quantities of beef, mutton, and venison; wooden spits supported sheep
and goats, which were roasted entire; others were cut into joints,
and seethed in caldrons made of the animal’s own skins, sewed hastily
together and filled with water; while huge quantities of pike, trout,
salmon, and char were broiled with more ceremony on glowing embers. The
glover had seen many a Highland banquet, but never one the preparations
for which were on such a scale of barbarous profusion.
He had little time, however, to admire the scene around him for, as
soon as they landed on the beach, the Booshalloch observed with some
embarrassment, that, as they had not been bidden to the table of the
dais, to which he seemed to have expected an invitation, they had best
secure a place in one of the inferior bothies or booths; and was leading
the way in that direction, when he was stopped by one of the bodyguards,
seeming to act as master of ceremonies, who whispered something in his
ear.
“I thought so,” said the herdsman, much relieved--“I thought neither the
stranger nor the man that has my charge would be left out at the high
table.”
They were conducted accordingly into the ample lodge, within which were
long ranges of tables already mostly occupied by the guests, while those
who acted as domestics were placing upon them the abundant though rude
materials of the festival. The young chief, although he certainly saw
the glover and the herdsman enter, did not address any personal salute
to either, and their places were assigned them in a distant corner, far
beneath the salt, a huge piece of antique silver plate, the only article
of value that the table displayed, and which was regarded by the clan
as a species of palladium, only produced and used on the most solemn
occasions, such as the present.
The Booshalloch, somewhat discontented, muttered to Simon as he took his
place: “These are changed days, friend. His father, rest his soul, would
have spoken to us both; but these are bad manners which he has learned
among you Sassenachs in the Low Country.”
To this remark the glover did not think it necessary to reply; instead
of which he adverted to the evergreens, and particularly to the skins
and other ornaments with which the interior of the bower was decorated.
The most remarkable part of these ornaments was a number of Highland
shirts of mail, with steel bonnets, battle axes, and two handed swords
to match, which hung around the upper part of the room, together with
targets highly and richly embossed. Each mail shirt was hung over a well
dressed stag’s hide, which at once displayed the armour to advantage and
saved it from suffering by damp.
“These,” whispered the Booshalloch, “are the arms of the chosen
champions of the Clan Quhele. They are twenty-nine in number, as you
see, Eachin himself being the thirtieth, who wears his armour today,
else had there been thirty. And he has not got such a good hauberk after
all as he should wear on Palm Sunday. These nine suits of harness, of
such large size, are for the leichtach, from whom so much is expected.”
“And these goodly deer hides,” said Simon, the spirit of his profession
awakening at the sight of the goods in which he traded--“think you the
chief will be disposed to chaffer for them? They are in demand for the
doublets which knights wear under their armour.”
“Did I not pray you,” said Niel Booshalloch, “to say nothing on that
subject?”
“It is the mail shirts I speak of,” said Simon--“may I ask if any of
them were made by our celebrated Perth armourer, called Henry of the
Wynd?”
“Thou art more unlucky than before,” said Niel, “that man’s name is to
Eachin’s temper like a whirlwind upon the lake; yet no man knows for
what cause.”
“I can guess,” thought our glover, but gave no utterance to the thought;
and, having twice lighted on unpleasant subjects of conversation, he
prepared to apply himself, like those around him, to his food, without
starting another topic.
We have said as much of the preparations as may lead the reader to
conclude that the festival, in respect of the quality of the food, was
of the most rude description, consisting chiefly of huge joints of meat,
which were consumed with little respect to the fasting season, although
several of the friars of the island convent graced and hallowed the
board by their presence. The platters were of wood, and so were the
hooped cogues or cups out of which the guests quaffed their liquor, as
also the broth or juice of the meat, which was held a delicacy. There
were also various preparations of milk which were highly esteemed, and
were eaten out of similar vessels. Bread was the scarcest article at the
banquet, but the glover and his patron Niel were served with two small
loaves expressly for their own use. In eating, as, indeed, was then the
case all over Britain, the guests used their knives called skenes, or
the large poniards named dirks, without troubling themselves by the
reflection that they might occasionally have served different or more
fatal purposes.
At the upper end of the table stood a vacant seat, elevated a step or
two above the floor. It was covered with a canopy of hollow boughs and
ivy, and there rested against it a sheathed sword and a folded banner.
This had been the seat of the deceased chieftain, and was left vacant
in honour of him. Eachin occupied a lower chair on the right hand of the
place of honour.
The reader would be greatly mistaken who should follow out this
description by supposing that the guests behaved like a herd of hungry
wolves, rushing upon a feast rarely offered to them. On the contrary,
the Clan Quhele conducted themselves with that species of courteous
reserve and attention to the wants of others which is often found in
primitive nations, especially such as are always in arms, because a
general observance of the rules of courtesy is necessary to prevent
quarrels, bloodshed, and death. The guests took the places assigned them
by Torquil of the Oak, who, acting as marischal taeh, i.e. sewer of
the mess, touched with a white wand, without speaking a word, the place
where each was to sit. Thus placed in order, the company patiently
waited for the portion assigned them, which was distributed among them
by the leichtach; the bravest men or more distinguished warriors of
the tribe being accommodated with a double mess, emphatically called
bieyfir, or the portion of a man. When the sewers themselves had seen
every one served, they resumed their places at the festival, and were
each served with one of these larger messes of food. Water was placed
within each man’s reach, and a handful of soft moss served the purposes
of a table napkin, so that, as at an Eastern banquet, the hands were
washed as often as the mess was changed. For amusement, the bard recited
the praises of the deceased chief, and expressed the clan’s confidence
in the blossoming virtues of his successor. The seannachie recited the
genealogy of the tribe, which they traced to the race of the Dalriads;
the harpers played within, while the war pipes cheered the multitude
without. The conversation among the guests was grave, subdued, and
civil; no jest was attempted beyond the bounds of a very gentle
pleasantry, calculated only to excite a passing smile. There were no
raised voices, no contentious arguments; and Simon Glover had heard a
hundred times more noise at a guild feast in Perth than was made on this
occasion by two hundred wild mountaineers.
Even the liquor itself did not seem to raise the festive party above the
same tone of decorous gravity. It was of various kinds. Wine appeared in
very small quantities, and was served out only to the principal guests,
among which honoured number Simon Glover was again included. The wine
and the two wheaten loaves were indeed the only marks of notice which he
received during the feast; but Niel Booshalloch, jealous of his master’s
reputation for hospitality, failed not to enlarge on them as proofs
of high distinction. Distilled liquors, since so generally used in
the Highlands, were then comparatively unknown. The usquebaugh was
circulated in small quantities, and was highly flavoured with a
decoction of saffron and other herbs, so as to resemble a medicinal
potion rather than a festive cordial. Cider and mead were seen at the
entertainment, but ale, brewed in great quantities for the purpose, and
flowing round without restriction, was the liquor generally used, and
that was drunk with a moderation much less known among the more modern
Highlanders. A cup to the memory of the deceased chieftain was the first
pledge solemnly proclaimed after the banquet was finished, and a low
murmur of benedictions was heard from the company, while the monks
alone, uplifting their united voices, sung Requiem eternam dona. An
unusual silence followed, as if something extraordinary was expected,
when Eachin arose with a bold and manly, yet modest, grace, and ascended
the vacant seat or throne, saying with dignity and firmness:
“This seat and my father’s inheritance I claim as my right--so prosper
me God and St. Barr!”
“How will you rule your father’s children?” said an old man, the uncle
of the deceased.
“I will defend them with my father’s sword, and distribute justice to
them under my father’s banner.”
The old man, with a trembling hand, unsheathed the ponderous weapon,
and, holding it by the blade, offered the hilt to the young chieftain’s
grasp; at the same time Torquil of the Oak unfurled the pennon of the
tribe, and swung it repeatedly over Eachin’s head, who, with singular
grace and dexterity, brandished the huge claymore as in its defence.
The guests raised a yelling shout to testify their acceptance of the
patriarchal chief who claimed their allegiance, nor was there any who,
in the graceful and agile youth before them, was disposed to recollect
the subject of sinister vaticinations. As he stood in glittering mail,
resting on the long sword, and acknowledging by gracious gestures the
acclamations which rent the air within, without, and around, Simon
Glover was tempted to doubt whether this majestic figure was that of the
same lad whom he had often treated with little ceremony, and began to
have some apprehension of the consequences of having done so. A
general burst of minstrelsy succeeded to the acclamations, and rock and
greenwood rang to harp and pipes, as lately to shout and yell of woe.
It would be tedious to pursue the progress of the inaugural feast, or
detail the pledges that were quaffed to former heroes of the clan, and
above all to the twenty-nine brave galloglasses who were to fight in the
approaching conflict, under the eye and leading of their young chief.
The bards, assuming in old times the prophetic character combined with
their own, ventured to assure them of the most distinguished victory,
and to predict the fury with which the blue falcon, the emblem of the
Clan Quhele, should rend to pieces the mountain cat, the well known
badge of the Clan Chattan.
It was approaching sunset when a bowl, called the grace cup, made of
oak, hooped with silver, was handed round the table as the signal of
dispersion, although it was left free to any who chose a longer carouse
to retreat to any of the outer bothies. As for Simon Glover, the
Booshalloch conducted him to a small hut, contrived, it would seem,
for the use of a single individual, where a bed of heath and moss was
arranged as well as the season would permit, and an ample supply of
such delicacies as the late feast afforded showed that all care had been
taken for the inhabitant’s accommodation.
“Do not leave this hut,” said the Booshalloch, taking leave of his
friend and protege: “this is your place of rest. But apartments are lost
on such a night of confusion, and if the badger leaves his hole the toad
will creep into it.”
To Simon Glover this arrangement was by no means disagreeable. He had
been wearied by the noise of the day, and felt desirous of repose. After
eating, therefore, a morsel, which his appetite scarce required, and
drinking a cup of wine to expel the cold, he muttered his evening
prayer, wrapt himself in his cloak, and lay down on a couch which old
acquaintance had made familiar and easy to him. The hum and murmur,
and even the occasional shouts, of some of the festive multitude who
continued revelling without did not long interrupt his repose, and in
about ten minutes he was as fast asleep as if he had lain in his own bed
in Curfew Street.