Kabanata Kabanata 11 · THE BANQUET

. 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 ate

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.”[*] 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.

[* Southey’s Madoc.]

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, to the honour of the Baron’s roof-tree.[10]

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 à boire_, and spouted

pieces of Latin; Killancureit talked, in a steady unalterable dull key,

of top-dressing and bottom-dressing,[*] 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 Maréchal Duc de

Berwick”; then, imitating, as well as he could, the manner and tone of

a French musquetaire, he immediately commenced,—

“Mon cœur volage, dit elle,

N’est pas pour vous, garçon;

Est pour un homme de guerre,

Qui a barbe au menton.

Lon, Lon, Laridon.

“Qui port chapeau à plume,

Soulier à rouge talon,

Qui joue de la flute,

Aussi du violon.

Lon, Lon, Laridon.”

[* 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.]

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.[*]

[* _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 Lapithæ.