The shepherds,
the shepherds’ dogs, and the domestic servants, dined
in the large kitchen. The kitchen was the most picturesque apartment
in the house. There was a huge dresser near the small dusty
window; in a dark corner stood a great cupboard in which crockery
was stowed away. The walls and rafters were black with peat
smoke. Dogs were continually sleeping on the floor with their
heads resting on their outstretched paws; and from a frequent
start and whine, you knew that in dream they were chasing a
flock of sheep along the steep hill-side, their masters shouting
out orders to them from the valley beneath. The fleeces of sheep
which had been found dead on the mountain were nailed on the
walls to dry.
Braxy hams
were suspended from the roof; strings of fish were hanging above
the fire-place. The door was almost continually open, for by
the door light mainly entered. Amid a savoury steam of broth
and potatoes, the shepherds and domestic servants drew in long
backless forms to the table, and dined, innocent of knife and
fork, the dogs snapping and snarling among their legs; and when
the meal was over, the dogs licked the platters. Macara, who
was something of a poet, would, on his
occasional visits, translate Gaelic poems for me. On one occasion,
after one of these translations had been read, I made the remark
that a similar set of ideas occurred in one of the songs of
Burns. His gray eyes immediately blazed up; he rushed into a
Gaelic recitation of considerable length; and, at its close,
snapping defiant fingers in my face, demanded, “Can you
produce anything out of your Shakespeare or your Burns equal
to that? Of course, I could not; and I fear I aggravated my
original offence by suggesting that in all likelihood my main
inability to produce a passage of corresponding excellence from
the southern authors arose from my
entire ignorance of the language of the native bard. When Peter
came with his violin, the kitchen was cleared after nightfall;
the forms were taken away, candles stuck into the battered tin
sconces, the dogs unceremoniously kicked out, and a somewhat
ample ball room was the rresult.
Alexander Smith (1830-67)