第 二十二 章 · HIGHLAND MINSTRELSY
. 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 moor-fowl’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 plénière_, 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 goat-skin 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 maréchal’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[23] 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 fire-side in the Highlands. Some of these
are said to be very ancient, and if they are ever translated into any
of the languages of civilised 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 sympathise 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
mountains?”
“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 as if 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.[24]
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 woos 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 few first 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 harmonised 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 benumb’d every hand!
The dirk and the target lie sordid with dust,
The bloodless claymore is but redden’d 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 hush’d 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 illumined with the rays,
And the streams of Glenfinnan[*] leap bright in the blaze.
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!
Ye sons of the strong, when that dawning shall break,
Need the harp of the aged remind you to wake?
That dawn never beam’d 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 Evan, 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 Kintail,
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 renown’d Rorri More,
To launch the long galley and stretch to the oar.
How Mac-Shimei will joy when their chief shall display
The yew-crested bonnet o’er tresses of grey!
How the race of wrong’d Alpine and murder’d 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!
[* 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
Doctor Gregory.]
[** The Marquis of Tullibardine’s elder brother, who, long exiled,
returned to Scotland with Charles Edward in 1745.]
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.
“O 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!
’T is the bugle—but not for the chase is the call;
’T is the pibroch’s shrill summons—but not to the hall.
“’T is 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!
[Illustration]