Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland Volume I Part 9

"Humanity needs nae pardon, man," replied the baron, nodding with sleep.

"Awa and feed the puir creatures; but tak care an' no tramp on an' kill ony o' my brave men in yer effort to save the lives o' yer mules."

"Never fear," said the other, taking from his pocket a small lantern, which he lighted. "Travellers stand in grand need of this machine," he continued. "I will return on the instant."

He now left the baron to his sleep, and crept stealthily along the pa.s.sage to the door leading to the court. He was followed, unseen, by Katherine, who watched every motion. He felt some difficulty in avoiding the men, who still lay on the ground; but with careful steps he reached the wall, and suddenly sprung on the parapet.

"Prepare!" whispered Katherine into the ears of the prostrate retainers; "the time approaches."

While thus engaged, she kept her eye upon the dark shadow of the merchant, and saw with surprise a blue light flash up from the top of the wall, and throw its ominous glare on the surrounding objects. A scream of the birds on the castle walls announced their wonder at the strange vision, and Katherine concluded that the merchant had thus produced his signal from some phosph.o.r.escent mixture, which he had ignited by the aid of the lantern. The light was followed instantly by a shrill blast of a horn. With a bound he reached the floor of the court, and, hastening to the warder's post, threw off the guard of the wheel, and, with all the art and rapidity of a seneschal, prepared for letting down the bridge. All was still as death; there seemed to be no interruption to his proceedings; but he started as he saw the rays of a lamp thrown from a loophole over his head, upon that part of the moat which the bridge covered. He had gone too far to recede, the creaking of the hinges grated, and down came the bridge with a hollow sound. A rush was now heard as of a body of men pressing forward to take possession of the pa.s.sage; and tramp, tramp came the sounds of the marching invaders over the hollow-sounding wood. All was still silent within the castle, and the sound of the procession continued. In an instant, a dense, dark body issued from the fir-wood, and rushed with heavy impetuous force on the rear of the corps that were pa.s.sing into the castle; and, simultaneously with that movement, the whole body of the men within the castle pressed forward to the end of the bridge, and met the front of the intruders, who were thus hedged in by two forces that had taken them by surprise, in both front and rear.

"Caught in our own snare!" cried the voice of old Otterstone.

"Disarm them," sounded shrilly from the lips of Katherine Kennedy.

And a scuffle of wrestling men sent its fearful, deathlike sound through the dark ballium. The strife was short and comparatively silent. The men who had rushed from the wood, and who were no other than the absent retainers of Innerkepple, coming from behind, and those within the strength meeting them in front, produced such an alarm in the enclosed troops, that the arms were taken from their hands as if they had been struck with palsy. Every two men seized their prisoner, while some holding burning torches came running forward, to show the revengeful baron the full extent of his shame. Ranged along the court, the spectacle presented by the prisoners was striking and grotesque. Their eyes sought in surprise the form of a female, who, with a sword in one hand and a torch in the other, stood in front of them, as the genius of their misfortune.

The hall door was now opened, where the old baron still sat sound asleep in his chair, unconscious of all these proceedings. The prisoners were led into the s.p.a.cious apartment, and ranged along the sides in long ranks. Innerkepple rubbed his eyes, stared, rubbed them again, and seemed lost in perfect bewilderment. All was conducted in dumb show. The proud and revengeful Otterstone was placed alongside of the good baron, his enemy; and Kate smiled as she contemplated the strange looks which the two rivals threw upon each other.

"Right happy am I," said Katherine, coming forward in the midst of the a.s.sembly, "to meet my good friends, the n.o.ble Otterstone and his men, in my father's hall, under the auspices of a healing friendship. Father, I offer thee the hand of Otterstone. Otterstone, I offer thee the hand of Innerkepple. Ye have long been separated by strife and war, though, on the one side, there was always a good feeling of generous kindliness, opposed to a bitterness that had no cause, and a revenge that knew no excuse. Born n.o.bles and neighbours, educated civilized men, and baptized Christians, why should ye be foes? but, above all, why should the one strike with the sword of war the hand that has held out to him the wine-cup? My father has ever been thy friend, n.o.ble Otterstone, and thou hast ever been his foe. How is this? Ah! I know it. Thou wert ignorant, n.o.ble guest, of my good father's generous and friendly feelings, and I have taken this opportunity of introducing you to each other, that ye may mutually come to the knowledge of each other's better qualities and intentions."

"What, in the name o' heaven, means a' this, Kate?" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Innerkepple, in still unsubdued amazement. "Am I dreamin', or am I betrayed? Whar is the wine merchant? Hoo cam ye here, Otterstone? Am I a prisoner in my ain castle, and my ain men and dochter laughing at my misfortune? But ye spoke o' friendship, Kate. Is it possible, Otterstone, ye hae repented o' yer ill will, and come to mak amends for past grievances?"

"Thou hast heard him, Otterstone," said Kate. "Wilt thou still refuse the hand?"

The chief hesitated; but the good-humoured looks of Innerkepple melted him, and he held out the right hand of good-fellowship to the old baron, who seized it cordially, and shook it heartily.

"Now," said Kate, "we must seal this friendship with a cup of wine.

Bring in the wine merchant."

The Frenchman was produced by the warder, along with the remaining hampers of the wine that had been left in the court-yard. As may have been already surmised, he was no other than the son of old Otterstone.

Surprised and confounded by all these proceedings, he stood in the midst of the company, looking first at his father, and then at Innerkepple, without forgetting Kate, who stood like a majestic queen, enjoying the triumph of her spirit and ingenuity. Above all things, he wondered at the smile of good humour in the face of his father; and his surprise knew no bounds when he saw every one around as well pleased as if they had been convened for the ends of friendship.

"Hector," said old Otterstone, looking at his son, "the game is up. This maiden has outwitted us, and we are caught in our own snare. Off with thy disguise, and show this n.o.ble damsel that thou art worthy of her best smiles."

Hector obeyed, and took off his wig, and the clumsy habiliments that covered his armour, and stood in the midst of the a.s.sembly, a young man of exquisite beauty.

"The wine merchant, Hector Fotheringham!" cried Innerkepple. "Ah, Kate, Kate! is this the way ye bring yer lovers to Innerkepple ha'?--in the shape o' a wine merchant--the only form o' the Deevil I wad like to see on this earth? Ha! ye baggage, weel do ye ken hoo to get at the heart o'

your faither. But whar was the use o' secresy, woman? And you, Hector, man, I needed nae bribe o' Tokay to be friendly to the lover o' my dochter. A fine youth--a fine youth. Surely, surely, this man was made for my dochter Kate."

"And thy daughter Kate was made for him," cried Otterstone.

The retainers of both houses shouted applause, and the hall rang with the noise. The wine, which was intended for deception and treachery, was circulated freely, and opened the hearts of the company. Innerkepple was ready again for his Tokay, and, lifting a large goblet to his head--

"To the union o' the twa hooses!" cried he. "And I wish I had twenty dochters, and Otterstone as mony sons, that they micht a' be married thegither; but, on this condition, that the bridegrooms should a' come in the shape o' wine merchants."

"Hurra, hurra!" shouted the retainers. The night was spent in good humour and revelry. All was restored; and, in a short time, the two houses were united by the marriage of Hector Fotheringham and Katherine Kennedy.

RECOLLECTIONS OF FERGUSON.[3]

CHAPTER I.

"Of Ferguson, the bauld and slee."--BURNS.

[3] The perusal of this paper, written at an early period by the lamented Hugh Miller, cannot fail to suggest some reflections on the fate of the author himself and that of the poet he describes. It would be simply fanciful to draw from his choice of subject, and the sympathy he manifests for the victim of insanity, any conclusion of a felt affinity of mental type on his part. We would presently get into the obscure subject of presentiments. It is true that Hugh Miller wrote poetry, and was thus subject to the Nemesis; but we insist for no more than a case of coincidence, leaving to psychologists to settle the question of the alleged connection between certain poetical types of mind and eventual madness--cases of which are so plentifully recorded in Germany.--_Ed._

I have, I believe, as little of the egotist in my composition as most men; nor would I deem the story of my life, though by no means unvaried by incident, of interest enough to repay the trouble of either writing or perusing it, were it the story of my own life only; but, though an obscure man myself, I have been singularly fortunate in my friends. The party-coloured tissue of my recollections is strangely interwoven, if I may so speak, with pieces of the domestic history of men whose names have become as familiar to our ears as that of our country itself; and I have been induced to struggle with the delicacy which renders one unwilling to speak much of one's self, and to overcome the dread of exertion natural to a period of life greatly advanced, through a desire of preserving to my countrymen a few notices, which would otherwise be lost to them, of two of their greatest favourites. I could once reckon among my dearest and most familiar friends, Robert Burns and Robert Ferguson.

It is now rather more than sixty years since I studied for a few weeks at the University of St. Andrew's. I was the son of very poor parents, who resided in a seaport town on the western coast of Scotland. My father was a house-carpenter, a quiet, serious man, of industrious habits and great simplicity of character, but miserably depressed in his circ.u.mstances, through a sickly habit of body: my mother was a warm-hearted, excellent woman, endowed with no ordinary share of shrewd good sense and sound feeling, and indefatigable in her exertions for my father and the family. I was taught to read at a very early age, by an old woman in the neighbourhood--such a person as Shenstone describes in his "Schoolmistress;" and, being naturally of a reflective turn, I had begun, long ere I had attained my tenth year, to derive almost my sole amus.e.m.e.nt from books. I read incessantly; and after exhausting the shelves of all the neighbours, and reading every variety of work that fell in my way--from "The Pilgrim's Progress" of Bunyan, and the Gospel Sonnets of Erskine, to a treatise on fortification by Vauban, and the "History of the Heavens" by the Abbe Pluche--I would have pined away for lack of my accustomed exercise, had not a benevolent baronet in the neighbourhood, for whom my father occasionally wrought, taken a fancy to me, and thrown open to my perusal a large and well-selected library. Nor did his kindness terminate until, after having secured to me all of learning that the parish school afforded, he had settled me, now in my seventeenth year, at the University.

Youth is the season of warm friendships and romantic wishes and hopes.

We say of the child, in its first attempts to totter along the wall, or when it has first learned to rise beside its mother's knee, that it is yet too weak to stand alone; and we may employ the same language in describing a young and ardent mind. It is, like the child, too weak to stand alone, and anxiously seeks out some kindred mind on which to lean.

I had had my intimates at school, who, though of no very superior cast, had served me, if I may so speak, as resting-places, when wearied with my studies, or when I had exhausted my lighter reading; and now, at St.

Andrew's, where I knew no one, I began to experience the unhappiness of an unsatisfied sociality. My schoolfellows were mostly stiff, illiterate lads, who, with a little bad Latin and worse Greek, plumed themselves mightily on their scholarship; and I had little inducement to form any intimacies among them; for, of all men, the ignorant scholar is the least amusing. Among the students of the upper cla.s.ses, however, there was at least one individual with whom I longed to be acquainted. He was apparently much about my own age, rather below than above the middle size, and rather delicately than robustly formed; but I have rarely seen a more elegant figure or more interesting face. His features were small, and there was what might perhaps be deemed a too feminine delicacy in the whole contour; but there was a broad and very high expansion of forehead, which, even in those days, when we were acquainted with only the phrenology taught by Plato, might be regarded as the index of a capacious and powerful mind; and the brilliant light of his large black eyes, seemed to give earnest of its activity.

"Who, in the name of wonder, is that?" I inquired of a cla.s.s-fellow, as this interesting-looking young man pa.s.sed me for the first time.

"A clever, but very unsettled fellow from Edinburgh," replied the lad; "a capital linguist, for he gained our first bursary three years ago; but our Professor says he is certain he will never do any good. He cares nothing for the company of scholars like himself; and employs himself--though he excels, I believe, in English composition--in writing vulgar Scotch rhymes, like Allan Ramsay. His name is Robert Ferguson."

I felt, from this moment, a strong desire to rank among the friends of one who cared nothing for the company of such men as my cla.s.s-fellow, and who, though acquainted with the literature of England and Rome, could dwell with interest on the simple poetry of his native country.

There is no place in the neighbourhood of St. Andrew's where a leisure hour may be spent more agreeably than among the ruins of the Cathedral.

I was not slow in discovering the eligibilities of the spot; and it soon became one of my favourite haunts. One evening, a few weeks after I had entered on my course at college, I had seated myself among the ruins in a little ivied nook fronting the setting sun, and was deeply engaged with the melancholy Jaques in the forest of Ardennes, when, on hearing a light footstep, I looked up, and saw the Edinburgh student whose appearance had so interested me, not four yards away. He was busied with his pencil and his tablets, and muttering, as he went, in a half audible voice, what, from the inflection of the tones, seemed to be verse. On seeing me, he started, and apologizing, in a few hurried but courteous words, for what he termed the involuntary intrusion, would have pa.s.sed; but, on my rising and stepping up to him, he stood.

"I am afraid, Mr. Ferguson," I said, "'tis I who owe _you_ an apology; the ruins have long been yours, and I am but an intruder. But you must pardon me; I have often heard of them in the west, where they are hallowed, even more than they are here, from their connection with the history of some of our n.o.blest Reformers; and, besides, I see no place in the neighbourhood where Shakspeare can be read to more advantage."

"Ah," said he, taking the volume out of my hand, "a reader of Shakspeare and an admirer of Knox. I question whether the heresiarch and the poet had much in common."

"Nay, now, Mr. Ferguson," I replied, "you are too true a Scot to question that. They had much, very much in common. Knox was no rude Jack Cade, but a great and powerful-minded man; decidedly as much so as any of the n.o.bler conceptions of the dramatist--his Caesars, Brutuses, or Oth.e.l.los. Buchanan could have told you that he had even much of the spirit of the poet in him, and wanted only the art; and just remember how Milton speaks of him in his "Areopagitica." Had the poet of "Paradise Lost" thought regarding him as it has become fashionable to think and speak now, he would hardly have apostrophized him as--_Knox, the reformer of a nation--a great man animated by the spirit of G.o.d_."

"Pardon me," said the young man, "I am little acquainted with the prose writings of Milton; and have, indeed, picked up most of my opinions of Knox at second-hand. But I have read his _merry_ account of the murder of Beaton, and found nothing to alter my preconceived notions of him, from either the matter or manner of the narrative. Now that I think of it, however, my opinion of Bacon would be no very adequate one, were it formed solely from the extract of his history of Henry VII., given by Kaimes in his late publication.--Will you not extend your walk?"

We quitted the ruins together, and went sauntering along the sh.o.r.e.

There was a rich sunset glow on the water, and the hills that rise on the opposite side of the Frith stretched their undulating line of azure under a gorgeous canopy of crimson and gold. My companion pointed to the scene:--"These glorious clouds," he said, "are but wreaths of vapour; and these lovely hills, acc.u.mulations of earth and stone. And it is thus with all the past--with the past of our own little histories, that borrows so much of its golden beauty from the medium through which we survey it--with the past, too, of all history. There is poetry in the remote--the bleak hill seems a darker firmament, and the chill wreath of vapour a river of fire. And you, sir, seem to have contemplated the history of our stern Reformers through this poetical medium, till you forget that the poetry was not in them, but in that through which you surveyed them."

"Ah, Mr. Ferguson," I replied, "you must permit me to make a distinction. I acquiesce fully in the justice of your remark; the a.n.a.logy, too, is nice and striking, but I would fain carry it a little further. Every eye can see the beauty of the remote; but there is a beauty in the near--an interest, at least--which every eye cannot see.

Each of the thousand little plants that spring up at our feet, has an interest and beauty to the botanist; the mineralogist would find something to engage him in every little stone. And it is thus with the poetry of life--all have a sense of it in the remote and the distant; but it is only the men who stand high in the art--its men of profound science--that can discover it in the near. The _mediocre_ poet shares but the commoner gift, and so he seeks his themes in ages or countries far removed from his own; while the man of n.o.bler powers, knowing that all nature is instinct with poetry, seeks and finds it in the men and scenes in his immediate neighbourhood. As to our Reformers"----

"Pardon me," said the young poet; "the remark strikes me, and, ere we lose it in something else, I must furnish you with an ill.u.s.tration.

There is an acquaintance of mine, a lad much about my own age, greatly addicted to the study of poetry. He has been making verses all his life-long; he began ere he had learned to write them even; and his judgment has been gradually overgrowing his earlier compositions, as you see the advancing tide rising on the beach and obliterating the prints on the sand. Now, I have observed, that, in all his earlier compositions, he went far from home; he could not attempt a pastoral without first transporting himself to the vales of Arcady; or an ode to Pity or Hope, without losing the warm living sentiment in the dead, cold, personifications of the Greek. The Hope and Pity he addressed were, not the undying attendants of human nature, but the shadowy spectres of a remote age. Now, however, I feel that a change has come over me. I seek for poetry among the fields and cottages of my own land.

I--a--a--the friend of whom I speak----But I interrupted your remark on the Reformers."

"Nay," I replied, "if you go on so, I would much rather listen than speak. I only meant to say that the Knoxes and Melvilles of our country have been robbed of the admiration and sympathy of many a kindred spirit, by the strangely erroneous notions that have been abroad regarding them for at least the last two ages. Knox, I am convinced, would have been as great as Jeremy Taylor, had he not been greater."

We sauntered along the sh.o.r.e till the evening had darkened into night, lost in an agreeable interchange of thought, "Ah!" at length exclaimed my companion, "I had almost forgotten my engagement, Mr. Lindsay; but it must not part us. You are a stranger here, and I must introduce you to some of my acquaintance. There are a few of us--choice spirits, of course--who meet every Sat.u.r.day evening at John Hogg's; and I must just bring you to see them. There may be much less wit than mirth among us; but you will find us all sober when at the gayest; and old John will be quite a study for you."