visitor seemed appalled by the look and words of the dwarf, and as the door of the little murky cottage had been shut and bolted, he evidently seemed far from being comfortable. With a blanched cheek and trembling frame, he murmured a disclaimer of gifts above this world-when David, rousing up a hitherto unseen huge black cat, the creature sprang upon the window-bole, where it intercepted the only light that entered the hut. "He has poo'er!" added the dwarf, pointing through the gloom to what might have seemed his familiar. This was such a scene as does not often occur in civilized life, and it impressed the future novelist greatly. Out of the occurrence, twenty years after, sprung his tale of the Black Dwarf. Another of Dr. Ferguson's neighbors was a laird of antique stamp, who had six blooming daughters, to one of whom young Adam had dared to lift the eyes of affection. It was agreed by Scott to accompany his friend on a call at the manor-house, and as far as possible make play, so as to help him to an opportunity of saying a few private words to the young lady. After some chat in the parlor, the party took a walk in the garden, where Ferguson contrived to move on in front with his inamorato, while the old spectacled laird, with his stick over his shoulder, brought up the rear, attended by the storytelling Scott. The lover, at the end of a walk, heard his friend's voice: "It was in the year fourteen hundred and eighty-three," &c.; and was just thinking he might safely advance a very interesting proposition to his fair companion, when suddenly the laird's voice broke in: "Now that's what I can not allow. There must be nothing of the kind. I can give no permission-so you need not attempt it." He turned in alarm, to see the laird starting forward in an excited manner, while Scott came limping after, with a vain attempt to recall his attention to the fifteenth century. Oh, it is all over with me," thought he; and from that moment abandoned his hopes. What was his mortification afterwards, to learn that the laird had never once thought of interdicting his passion, but was merely anxious to debar him from attacking a particular kind of red gooseberry, which he had set aside for his own eating, and which he thought his young visitor was approaching rather too near! Ferguson joined his first regiment at Air, and found the officers, especially the young ones, somewhat prejudiced against him, on account of having already entered life in a civil profession. By the virtues of a barrel of Edinburgh oysters and a small keg of Highland whisky, not to speak of his own delightful songs and stories, he wonderfully overcame all difficulty; yet still there was a disposition to quiz him. When it was known that he was ordered to take out the men to parade one morning, there was an assemblage of the young ones at the head of a close opposite, to enjoy the sight of his awkwardness; but, behold, the ex-writer managed the men as well as if he had been twenty years in the army. Observing the lurkingparty across the way, he called out: "Ah, you dogs, I see what you're after; but ye didn't know that I was an old hand in the Edinburgh Volunteers!" He was in reality a completely schooled officer, but had concealed the fact in order to countermine them. He passed through the Peninsular War under Wellington, and told many pleasant stories of his campaigns, most of which have vanished from our memory. One, referring to the only occasion of his ever coming in contact with the great commander, was very apt to turn up. He was posted with a small party beside a river, to watch its subsidence from a flood, as it was expected that the enemy only waited till it was fordable before crossing to make an attack. The commander came riding up with one or two of his staff, and began to inquire about the state of the river, but at the same time kept constantly looking about, as if more than half engaged with some other kind of reconnoissance. Ferguson said he thought the river was now passable. "Have you been accustomed to judge of rivers?" "What river have you known?" "The Tweed, the Tweed?" said Wellington abstractedly, and still looking about. "Yes, my lord, the Tweed, which divides Scotland from England," answered Fergyson, betrayed into a piece of ludicrous explanation by the absorbed manner of his commander. At that moment, his eye caught Sir Thomas Picton bursting out into a fit of laughter, in which Lord Wellington could not refrain from joining; and we rather think this laugh took a complete round of the army, and that several weeks elapsed before Ferguson heard the end of it. In 1811, Ferguson wrote to his old friend Scott from Lisbon. "I need not tell you how greatly I was delighted with the success of the Lady of the Lake. I dare say you are by this time well tired of such greet ings; so I shall only say that last spring. I was so fortunate as to get a reading of it when in the lines of Torres Vedras, and thought I had no inconsiderable right to enter and judge of its beauties, having made one of the party on your first visit to the Trosachs. While the book was in my possession, I had nightly invitations to evening parties, to read and illustrate passages of it; and I must say that (though not conscious of much merit in the way of recitation) my attempts to do justice to the grand opening of the stag hunt were always followed with bursts of applause, for this canto was the favorite among the rough sons of the Fight ing Third Division. At this time, supplies of various kinds, especially any thing in the way of delicacies, were very scanty; and in gratitude, I am bound to declare that to the good offices of the Lady' I owed many a nice slice of ham and rummer of hot punch, which, I assure you, were among the most welcome favors that one officer could bestow upon another, during the long rainy months. of last January and February." was induce the retired officer to come with his sisters and reside in the neighborhood of Abbotsford; and the only difficulty was as to a house. At the distance of a couple of miles, there was a neat small estate, with a mansion upon it, which the laird was disposed to part with; but he asked what was thought a high price-namely, £10,000. According to our recollection of Ferguson's narration, the two friends walked over one Saturday to Toftfield-for so the place was called-and entered into discussion with the laird. After a brief conversation, seeing the proprietor stand firm, Scott agreed to take the estate at the money-a singularly offhand way of transacting such a piece of business. Ferguson felt real concern, and as they came away said: Walter, I'm afraid you've been rather rash here." "No, no," replied Scott, "don't say a word about it-it will just answer you and the ladies exactly; and what although it be a long price, why I've only to spin a few more of those old stories to make all right." Captain Ferguson, when in command of So Toftfield, under the new name of a small outlying party at Burgos, in 1812, Huntly Burn, became the retreat of the old taken prisoner, and conducted into soldier, who from that time was almost daily France. He underwent some hardships on in the company of his friend, and the confithis occasion, but bore a light heart through dant of all his literary doings. After a few them all, and even contrived to pay a visit years, Ferguson married a widow lady, whose to Paris. He was in an open fiacre in the niece in time became the wife of Scott's son; street, when the word was given to make a step by which the bonds of the two friends room for the Emperor, who was about to were drawn, if possible, tighter. Sir Adam's pass. His charioteer drew up at the side- cheerful good-nature, his uncommon powers, pavement, and Ferguson prepared to get a almost rivalling Scott's own, of telling a view of the great man. He had better, story, and his really admirable gift of song, however, have kept out of the way. The especially in the department of the old mereye of Napoleon was caught by something ry minstrelsy of Scotland (Johnie Cope, for foreign and peculiar in his aspect, and as he instance, and Hame cam our Goodman at slowly passed, he took a keen and suspicious e'en), endeared him to the family circle at look of the stranger. "Il vous a fixé," | Abbotsford, and insured his becoming a quoth the driver, as much as to say: "You lasting image in the memory of every visitor. are done for." In brief space, the English Thomas Moore has left a strong testimony of prisoner was in the presence of Fouché, his enjoyment of Sir Adam's society, his chief of the police, who subjected him to a stories, and his Jacobite ditties. Wilkie, in most searching examination. It was only painting the Abbotsford family in one group, through Napoleon's veneration for the names put in Ferguson's tall lank figure and droll of his father and granduncle-Joseph Black, countenance as a necessary appendage, and the chemist-that his frolic ended without it chances to be by far the best part of the unpleasant consequences. picture. It is not to be supposed that any other man of the same amount of talent for humor would have been equally agreeable to Scott, even granting him to have also been a school-companion. The humor of Ferguson was of the same Scottish type with Scott's own; and all his ideas and stories had that smack of Scottish association which Sir Walter so intensely relished. After the conclusion of the war, Scott felt very anxious to promote the interests of his old friend, and through his exertions mainly, he was appointed keeper of the regalia of Scotland, with a salary, to which George IV. afterwards added knighthood. The affections of Scott are strikingly shown in Ferguson's history. He was anxious to of the Border, it was one half of the very salt of life. On trying to recall some of the many stories which Sir Adam used to tell, we feel how impossible it is to communicate in writing any beyond the most inconsiderable portion of the effect which he gave them, so much were they indebted to voice, look, and shades of diction far too nice to bear transcription. Yet, in the hope of the reader's making large allowances, we shall make an attempt to arrest a few of them. Here lay the charm. It was a charm quite | ing a long tirade, in an enthusiastic manner, peculiar, and which none but a Scotsman, on the virtues of an article then in the course and one of somewhat old fashion, can en- of being puffed in newspaper advertisements tirely appreciate. To the Great Magician-namely, patent mustard. Ferguson, in the meantime, had a private conversation with the principal, in which he took occasion to remark, that he had lately begun to fear there was something wrong with Carlyle's mind: he was getting so addicted to speak loudly in praise of trivial things-for example, he was unable for the present to converse about anything but patent mustard! Robertson expressed his concern for the case, but hoped it was only a passing whim. The dinner-party accordingly assembled at Dr. Ferguson's, and Robertson was about to commence as usual with one of his longwinded formal palavers, when all at once Dr. Carlyle broke in: "This was," he said, "an age most notable for its inventions and discoveries. Human ingenuity was exerted on the noblest and the meanest things, and often with the most admirable effects on the meanest. There was, for instance, an article of a humble kind which had lately been wonderfully improved by a particular mode of preparation, and he, for his part, was inclined to say, that patent mustard was the thing above all others which gave a distinguishing glory to this age. In the first place" It is needless, however, to pursue his discourse further. Suffice it, that Dr. Robertson sat paralyzed, and could not afterwards during the whole night muster power of spirits to utter more than an occasional sentence. Many years before the conclusion of the last century, Dr. Ferguson travelled one day from London to Richmond in a stage-coach, which at first contained no other passengers than a hale-looking old clergyman, of voluminous figure, and with a red face and gurgling unctuous voice. As they went along, they received an addition to the company, in the form of a small prim old lady, with a very sharp perking voice, and who appeared to be a friend of the old clergy man. "I hope, doctor, I see you well," quoth the small prim lady with the sharp perking voice. "I can't complain," responded the heavy fat voice, self-complacently. "Have you met many turkeys and chines this Christmas, doctor?" inquired the perky voice. "A good many-a good many," were the few but expressive words of the other, like so many blobs in boiling tallow. It was from this little bit of character that Scott conceived the idea of Dr. Redgill in St. Ronan's Well. Dr. Adam Ferguson, while devotedly attached to Dr. Robertson, and a great admirer of his works, found reason to complain of the manner in which he conducted himself in private society, particularly at dinner-parties. It was the worthy principal's custom, as soon as the cloth had been removed, to settle himself in his chair, and throwing out a subject, commence lecturing upon it, to the destruction of conversation, and the no small weariness of the company. By way of giving him a check, Dr. Ferguson took his friend, Dr. Carlyle of Inveresk, into counsel; and it was speedily arranged between them, that, immediately after dinner, Dr. Carlyle should anticipate the ordinary lecture of Dr. Robertson, by commenc Mr. John Home, author of the tragedy of Douglas, was an intimate friend of Dr. Ferguson, and of him, accordingly, Sir Adam had many reminiscences. When the poet lived in North Hanover street, Edinburgh, he one day entertained at lunch the Lady Randolph of her day, the celebrated Mrs. Siddons. She was asked what she would have to drink, and happened to mention " little porter." "John," said Mr. Home to his serving-man, "you'll get Mrs. Siddons a little porter." Then the conversation went on as usual, John having meanwhile disappeared from the room. "a "My dear, where is John? I want a slice of bread. I really think this young man will not suit us, my dear-he's so very stupid.". After some fretting about John, the delinquent suddenly came in, followed by a stout, short Highlander from the street, with a baldrick of ropes over his shoulder, and a leaden badge on his breast. "John, where have you been? You've been much wanted-why did you leave the room ? I'm very angry with you!" "Oh, sir," quoth John, "I've been out to get the little porter for the lady, and here's the very least one I could find on the stand." The mistake, the aspect of the little porter undoing his ropes, as for a job, at the door, and the puzzlement of the ancient host and his wife, were too much for Mrs. Siddons, who went off into perfect shouts of laughter, and scarcely recovered tranquillity for half an hour. Early in this century, an enthusiastic Englishman made a pilgrimage to Edinburgh, for little other reason than to see the author of the tragedy of Douglas. He made his way to Mr. Home's house, but learned at the door, to his great dismay, that the object of his idolatry had gone on a jaunt to the Highlands. "But ye may see Mrs. Home, maybe," said the serving-man, in pity for his evident distress. He caught at the idea, sent in his card, and was admitted to the presence of a very plain, old invalid lady, who sat wrapped up in flannel, and was very deaf. The visitor conversed with her as well as her deficient hearing permitted, and felt a good deal disenchanted. They came upon the subject of the recent Peace of Amiens. "Oh yes, ma'am; we shall now have most foreign things cheaper, because commerce will not be interrupted." 66 Div Je think it'll mak' ony difference in the price o' nitmugs?" said the poet's wife, referring to the only article which now affected her comfort greatly. The pilgrim could bear no more, but rushed from the house, and is supposed to have that night departed by mail for the south, quite cured of his extravagant feelings regarding the creator of Young Norval. We had the pleasure, a few years ago, of accompanying Sir Adam on an excursion in Peeblesshire, being the last visit he ever paid to that district, where he had spent many youthful years. It was most delight ful to hear his racy recollections of the men and things there sixty years back; and in particular, to survey with him the old manorhouse at Halyards, and listen to what he had to tell of almost every room in it, and every marked spot in its neighborhood, in connection with some distinguished name, It is to be or some interesting occurrence. remarked, that Dr. Ferguson's first residence in Peeblesshire was at Neid path Castle, which was then just about to fall into its present half-ruinous state. On settling there, he told his family that it was his desire that any of the respectable people of the neighborhood who called should be received with the utmost civility, so that they might remain on pleasant terms with all around them. Ere many days had elapsed, a neatly dressed gentleman-like little man was shown into Dr. Ferguson's own room, and entered easily into miscellaneous conversation. The bell for their early family dinner ringing at the time, the courteous professor invited his visitor to join the family in the dining-room, which he readily consented to do. The family, remembering their father's injunction, of course received the unknown with all possible distinction, and a very lively conversation ensued. Dr. Ferguson, however, expressed his concern to see that his guest was eating very little-indeed, only making an appearance of eating-and he confessed his regret that they had so little variety of fare to offer him. "Oh, doctor," said the stranger, "never mind me: the fact is, on killing-days I scarcely ever have any appetite." Not small was the surprise, but much greater the amusement of the family, on discovering that he of the stingy appetite was Robert Smith, the Peebles butcher, and that the object of the visit was merely to bespeak Dr. Ferguson's custom! Hallyards, to which they afterwards went, was a much more out-of-the-way place, where they had scarcely any conversable neighbor but the minister. One day, young Adam came unexpectedly from Edinburgh, and found only a couple of his sisters at home. On pushing a reconnoissance (one of our friend's favorite phrases) into the larder, he discovered that the available materials of dinner were of a very meagre characteronly a pickle trouts and a wheen craws. Things looked decidedly melancholy, when, to the agreeable surprise of all, a leg of mutton was handed in by a butcher's boy from the town. It looked like a special gift of Providence; but the human means, they had no doubt, was an order of their father, now out on one of his long rambles. Under the care of Miss Bell, i. e., Isabella, who acted as housekeeper, the mutton was right soon revolving before the kitchen-fire. In the midst of their pleasing anticipations, in came Archy Tod, the minister's man. "Has there been ony thing heard here o' a leg o' mutton ?” "Oh, ay," said Miss Bell; "one came here a little ago, and it's now preparing for dinner. Was the minister expecting such a thing?" "Ay, he was expectin't, and there's to be folk wi' him to-day to eat it." The lady at once saw how matters stood, and gave up the prize with the best grace she could. Archy was soon seen striding down the water-side to the manse, with the spit bearing the meat over his shoulder! One of the young ladies, who used to amuse herself with verse-making, next day produced a song to the old tune of the Mucking of Geordie's Byre; of which Sir Adam could remember one verse 'Twas never my father's intention, Should be put to the Ha'yards fire! Sir Adam had fewer anecdotes of Scott than one would have expected; nor were they in general of a remarkable kind. One occurrence, which put himself into a ludicrous light, happened when Sir Humphrey Davy came on a visit to Abbotsford. Ferguson having heard that Scott was out in the fields with a visitor, and having concluded, from some circumstances, that the stranger was his old naval acquaintance Lord John Hay, went out in search of them, and coming up in view on one side of the Rhymer's Glen, while they were at the distance of a quarter of a mile on the other, immediately began to pipe out a tissue of nautical phrases, with appropriate gesticulations, by way of a comical hail to his friend. Scott stared at him, in apprehension of his having suddenly gone mad; and as for the philosopher, who had never seen the merry knight before, he had no doubt on the point whatever. The affair stood a good deal of laughing that evening after dinner. Scott was never wanting in something pleasant to say, even on the most trivial occasions. Calling one day at Huntly Burn, soon after the settlement of his friend in that house, and observing a fine honeysuckle in full blossom over the door, he congratulated Miss Ferguson on its appearance. She remarked that it was the kind called trumpet honeysuckle, from the form of the flower. "Weel," said Scott, "ye'll never come out o' your ain door without a flourish o' trumpets." On a gusty autumn day, Scott and Ferguson went out a-coursing over the high grounds above Galashiels, and were like to be blown off their ponies. Coming to a lonely farmhouse, in a very exposed situation, they tapped at the door, but could get no admission. Hearing at length a female voice within, Sir Adam called out: 66 What's come o' a' the men?" "Ou, they're a' awa' owre to Windy doors [a real place so named]." "I think they micht ha'e been content wi' their ain doors to-day," said Scott in his quiet droll way, as he turned his pony's head. Scott's friend survived him upwards of twenty-two years, and remained in tolerable health and vigor within a few weeks of his death. Till struck with his mortal illness, he could enter into any cheerful scene, and even into the amusements of young people, with all his original sprightliness and his endless powers of pleasing. One can not well doubt that this sunniness of disposition had something to do with his attaining the age of eighty-four in such good condition of body. Now he has gone, all who knew him must feel that he leaves a great blank; for where can now be found any one to talk of Hume, Smith, and Robertson from personal association, or to express so well the characteristic humor of old Scotland in song and in story? |