Kabanata Kabanata 20 · A HIGHLAND FEAST

. A HIGHLAND FEAST

Ere Waverley entered the banqueting hall, he was offered the

patriarchal refreshment of a bath for the feet, which the sultry

weather, and the morasses he had traversed, rendered highly acceptable.

He was not, indeed, so luxuriously attended upon this occasion as the

heroic travellers in the Odyssey; the task of ablution and abstersion

being performed, not by a beautiful damsel, trained

To chafe the limb, and pour the fragrant oil,

but by a smoke-dried skinny old Highland woman, who did not seem to

think herself much honoured by the duty imposed upon her, but muttered

between her teeth, “Our fathers’ herds did not feed so near together

that I should do you this service.” A small donation, however, amply

reconciled this ancient handmaiden to the supposed degradation; and, as

Edward proceeded to the hall, she gave him her blessing in the Gaelic

proverb, “May the open hand be filled the fullest.”

The hall, in which the feast was prepared, occupied all the first story

of Ian nan Chaistel’s original erection, and a huge oaken table

extended through its whole length. The apparatus for dinner was simple,

even to rudeness, and the company numerous, even to crowding. At the

head of the table was the Chief himself, with Edward, and two or three

Highland visitors of neighbouring clans; the elders of his own tribe,

wadsetters and tacksmen, as they were called, who occupied portions of

his estate as mortgagers or lessees, sat next in rank; beneath them,

their sons and nephews and foster-brethren; then the officers of the

Chief’s household, according to their order; and lowest of all, the

tenants who actually cultivated the ground. Even beyond this long

perspective, Edward might see upon the green, to which a huge pair of

folding doors opened, a multitude of Highlanders of a yet inferior

description, who, nevertheless, were considered as guests, and had

their share both of the countenance of the entertainer and of the cheer

of the day. In the distance, and fluctuating round this extreme verge

of the banquet, was a changeful group of women, ragged boys and girls,

beggars, young and old, large greyhounds, and terriers, and pointers,

and curs of low degree; all of whom took some interest, more or less

immediate, in the main action of the piece.

This hospitality, apparently unbounded, had yet its line of economy.

Some pains had been bestowed in dressing the dishes of fish, game,

etc., which were at the upper end of the table, and immediately under

the eye of the English stranger. Lower down stood immense clumsy joints

of mutton and beef, which, but for the absence of pork,[21] abhorred in

the Highlands, resembled the rude festivity of the banquet of

Penelope’s suitors. But the central dish was a yearling lamb, called “a

hog in har’st,” roasted whole. It was set upon its legs, with a bunch

of parsley in its mouth, and was probably exhibited in that form to

gratify the pride of the cook, who piqued himself more on the plenty

than the elegance of his master’s table. The sides of this poor animal

were fiercely attacked by the clansmen, some with dirks, others with

the knives which were usually in the same sheath with the dagger, so

that it was soon rendered a mangled and rueful spectacle. Lower down

still, the victuals seemed of yet coarser quality, though sufficiently

abundant. Broth, onions, cheese, and the fragments of the feast regaled

the sons of Ivor who feasted in the open air.

The liquor was supplied in the same proportion, and under similar

regulations. Excellent claret and champagne were liberally distributed

among the Chief’s immediate neighbours; whisky, plain or diluted, and

strong beer refreshed those who sat near the lower end. Nor did this

inequality of distribution appear to give the least offence. Every one

present understood that his taste was to be formed according to the

rank which he held at table; and, consequently, the tacksmen and their

dependants always professed the wine was too cold for their stomachs,

and called, apparently out of choice, for the liquor which was assigned

to them from economy.[22] The bag-pipers, three in number, screamed,

during the whole time of dinner, a tremendous war-tune; and the echoing

of the vaulted roof, and clang of the Celtic tongue, produced such a

Babel of noises that Waverley dreaded his ears would never recover it.

Mac-Ivor, indeed, apologised for the confusion occasioned by so large a

party, and pleaded the necessity of his situation, on which unlimited

hospitality was imposed as a paramount duty. “These stout idle kinsmen

of mine,” he said, “account my estate as held in trust for their

support; and I must find them beef and ale, while the rogues will do

nothing for themselves but practise the broadsword, or wander about the

hills, shooting, fishing, hunting, drinking, and making love to the

lasses of the strath. But what can I do, Captain Waverley? everything

will keep after its kind, whether it be a hawk or a Highlander.” Edward

made the expected answer, in a compliment upon his possessing so many

bold and attached followers.

“Why, yes,” replied the Chief, “were I disposed, like my father, to put

myself in the way of getting one blow on the head, or two on the neck,

I believe the loons would stand by me. But who thinks of that in the

present day, when the maxim is, ‘Better an old woman with a purse in

her hand than three men with belted brands?’” Then, turning to the

company, he proposed the “Health of Captain Waverley, a worthy friend

of his kind neighbour and ally, the Baron of Bradwardine.”

“He is welcome hither,” said one of the elders, “if he come from Cosmo

Comyne Bradwardine.”

“I say nay to that,” said an old man, who apparently did not mean to

pledge the toast;—“I say nay to that. While there is a green leaf in

the forest, there will be fraud in a Comyne.”

“There is nothing but honour in the Baron of Bradwardine,” answered

another ancient; “and the guest that comes hither from him should be

welcome, though he came with blood on his hand, unless it were blood of

the race of Ivor.”

The old man whose cup remained full replied, “There has been blood

enough of the race of Ivor on the hand of Bradwardine.”

“Ah! Ballenkeiroch,” replied the first, “you think rather of the flash

of the carbine at the mains of Tully-Veolan than the glance of the

sword that fought for the cause at Preston.”

“And well I may,” answered Ballenkeiroch; “the flash of the gun cost me

a fair-haired son, and the glance of the sword has done but little for

King James.”

The Chieftain, in two words of French, explained to Waverley that the

Baron had shot this old man’s son in a fray near Tully-Veolan, about

seven years before; and then hastened to remove Ballenkeiroch’s

prejudice, by informing him that Waverley was an Englishman,

unconnected by birth or alliance with the family of Bradwardine; upon

which the old gentleman raised the hitherto-untasted cup and

courteously drank to his health. This ceremony being requited in kind,

the Chieftain made a signal for the pipes to cease, and said aloud,

“Where is the song hidden, my friends, that Mac-Murrough cannot find

it?”

Mac-Murrough, the family _bhairdh_, an aged man, immediately took the

hint, and began to chant, with low and rapid utterance, a profusion of

Celtic verses, which were received by the audience with all the

applause of enthusiasm. As he advanced in his declamation, his ardour

seemed to increase. He had at first spoken with his eyes fixed on the

ground; he now cast them around as if beseeching, and anon as if

commanding, attention, and his tones rose into wild and impassioned

notes, accompanied with appropriate gestures. He seemed to Edward, who

attended to him with much interest, to recite many proper names, to

lament the dead, to apostrophise the absent, to exhort, and entreat,

and animate those who were present. Waverley thought he even discerned

his own name, and was convinced his conjecture was right from the eyes

of the company being at that moment turned towards him simultaneously.

The ardour of the poet appeared to communicate itself to the audience.

Their wild and sun-burnt countenances assumed a fiercer and more

animated expression; all bent forward towards the reciter, many sprung

up and waved their arms in ecstasy, and some laid their hands on their

swords. When the song ceased, there was a deep pause, while the aroused

feelings of the poet and of the hearers gradually subsided into their

usual channel.

The Chieftain, who, during this scene had appeared rather to watch the

emotions which were excited than to partake their high tone of

enthusiasm, filled with claret a small silver cup which stood by him.

“Give this,” he said to an attendant, “to Mac-Murrough nan Fonn (that

is, of the songs), and when he has drank the juice, bid him keep, for

the sake of Vich Ian Vohr, the shell of the gourd which contained it.”

The gift was received by Mac-Murrough with profound gratitude; he drank

the wine, and, kissing the cup, shrouded it with reverence in the plaid

which was folded on his bosom. He then burst forth into what Edward

justly supposed to be an extemporaneous effusion of thanks and praises

of his Chief. It was received with applause, but did not produce the

effect of his first poem. It was obvious, however, that the clan

regarded the generosity of their Chieftain with high approbation. Many

approved Gaelic toasts were then proposed, of some of which the

Chieftain gave his guest the following versions:—

“To him that will not turn his back on friend or foe.” “To him that

never forsook a comrade.” “To him that never bought or sold justice.”

“Hospitality to the exile, and broken bones to the tyrant.” “The lads

with the kilts.” “Highlanders, shoulder to shoulder,”—with many other

pithy sentiments of the like nature.

Edward was particularly solicitous to know the meaning of that song

which appeared to produce such effect upon the passions of the company,

and hinted his curiosity to his host. “As I observe,” said the

Chieftain, “that you have passed the bottle during the last three

rounds, I was about to propose to you to retire to my sister’s

tea-table, who can explain these things to you better than I can.

Although I cannot stint my clan in the usual current of their

festivity, yet I neither am addicted myself to exceed in its amount,

nor do I,” added he, smiling, “keep a Bear to devour the intellects of

such as can make good use of them.”

Edward readily assented to this proposal, and the Chieftain, saying a

few words to those around him, left the table, followed by Waverley. As

the door closed behind them, Edward heard Vich Ian Vohr’s health

invoked with a wild and animated cheer, that expressed the satisfaction

of the guests and the depth of their devotion to his service.