CHAPTER VII.

"A lowly muse!

She sings of reptiles yet in song unknown."

I returned to the vessel with a heavy heart; and it was nearly three

months from this time ere I again set foot in Edinburgh. Alas! for my

unfortunate friend! He was now an inmate of the asylum, and on the verge

of dissolution. I was thrown, by accident, shortly after my arrival at

this time, into the company of one of his boon companions. I had gone

into a tavern with a brother sailor--a shrewd, honest skipper, from the

north country; and, finding the place occupied by half a dozen young

fellows, who were growing noisy over their liquor, I would have

immediately gone out again, had I not caught, in the passing, a few

words regarding my friend. And so, drawing to a side-table, I sat down.

"Believe me," said one of the topers, a dissolute-looking young man,

"it's all over with Bob Ferguson--all over; and I knew it from the

moment he grew religious. Had old Brown tried to convert me, I would

have broken his face."

"What Brown?" inquired one of his companions.

"Is that all you know?" rejoined the other. "Why, John Brown of

Haddington, the Seceder. Bob was at Haddington last year, at the

election; and, one morning, when in the horrors, after holding a rum

night of it, who should he meet in the churchyard but old John

Brown?--he writes, you know, a big book on the Bible. Well, he lectured

Bob at a pretty rate, about election and the call, I suppose; and the

poor fellow has been mad ever since. Your health, Jamie. For my own

part, I'm a freewill man, and detest all cant and humbug."

"And what has come of Ferguson now?" asked one of the others.

"Oh, mad, sir, mad," rejoined the toper--"reading the Bible all day, and

cooped up in the asylum yonder. 'Twas I who brought him to it.--But,

lads, the glass has been standing for the last half-hour.--'Twas I and

Jack Robinson who brought him to it, as I say. He was getting wild; and

so we got a sedan for him, and trumped up a story of an invitation for

tea from a lady, and he came with us as quietly as a lamb. But, if you

could have heard the shriek he gave when the chair stopped, and he saw

where we had brought him! I never heard anything half so horrible--it

rang in my ears for a week after; and then, how the mad people in the

upper rooms howled and gibbered in reply, till the very roof echoed!

People say he is getting better; but, when I last saw him, he was as

religious as ever, and spoke so much about heaven, that it was

uncomfortable to hear him. Great loss to his friends, after all the

expense they have been at with his education."

"You seem to have been intimate with Mr. Ferguson," I said.

"Oh, intimate with Bob!" he rejoined; "we were hand and glove, man. I

have sat with him in Lucky Middlemass's, almost every evening, for two

years; and I have given him hints for some of the best things in his

book. 'Twas I who tumbled down the cage in the Meadows, and began

breaking the lamps.

'Ye who oft finish care in Lethe's cup,

Who love to swear and roar, and _keep it up_,

List to a brother's voice, whose sole delight

Is sleep all day, and riot all the night.'

There's spirit for you! But Bob was never sound at bottom; and I have

told him so. 'Bob,' I have said, 'Bob, you're but a hypocrite after all,

man--without half the spunk you pretend to. Why don't you take a pattern

by me, who fear nothing, and believe only the agreeable? But, poor

fellow, he had weak nerves, and a church-going propensity that did him

no good; and you see the effects. 'Twas all nonsense, Tom, of his

throwing the squib into the Glassite meeting-house. Between you and I,

that was a cut far beyond him in his best days, poet as he was. 'Twas I

who did it, man, and never was there a cleaner row in auld Reekie."

"Heartless, contemptible puppy!" said my comrade, the sailor, as we left

the room. "Your poor friend must be ill, indeed, if he be but half as

insane as his quondam companion. But he cannot: there is no madness like

that of the heart. What could have induced a man of genius to associate

with a thing so thoroughly despicable?"

"The same misery, Miller," I said, "that brings a man _acquainted with

strange bedfellows_."

Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 01 · 第 7 / 10 章