as it increases in age, old Innerkepple proved, by his good humour and jovial manners, the sterling qualities of his heart, which seemed, as he progressed in years, to swell in proportion as that organ in others shrivelled and decreased. He saw nothing in age but the necessity it imposes of having more frequent recourse to its great enemy, the grape; and that power he delighted to bow to, as he bent his head to empty the flagon which his forebear, Kenneth, got from the first King James, as a reward for his services against the house of Albany. Yet the good humour of the old baron was not that of the toper, which, produced by the bowl, would not exist but for its inspiring draught; the feeling of happiness and universal good-will lay at the bottom of the heart itself, and was only swelled into a state of glorious ebullition by the charm of the magic of the vine branch—the true Mercurial caduceus, the only true magic wand upon earth.
Though the spirit of antiquarianism is seldom associated with the swelling affections of the heart that is dedicated to Momus, old Innerkepple had, notwithstanding, been able to combine the two qualities or powers. Sitting in his old wainscotted hall, over a goblet of spiced Tokay, there were three old subjects he loved to speculate upon; and these were—his old castle, with its chronicled wounds, where the Genius of War sat alongside of the "auld carle" Time, in grim companionship; secondly, the family tree of the Innerkepples—with himself, a good old branch, kept green by good humour and Tokay, at the further verge; and a small green twig, as slender as a lily stalk, issuing from the old branch—no other than the daughter of Innerkepple, the fair Kate Kennedy, a buxom damsel, of goodly proportions, and as merry, with the aid of health and young sparkling blood, as the old baron was with the spiced wine of Tokay; and, in the third place, there was the true
legitimate study of the antiquary, the ancient wine itself, the mortal years of which he counted with an eye as bright as Cocker's over a triumphant solution. As this last subject grew upon him, he became inspired, like the old poet of Teos, and the rafters of Innerkepple rang to the sound of his voice, tuned to the air of "The Guidwife o' Tullybody," and fraught with the deeds, active and passive, of the barons of Innerkepple and their castle.
The fair Katherine Kennedy inherited her father's good humour, and, maugre all the polishing and freezing influences of high birth, retained her inborn freedom of thought and action, heedless whether the contortion of the buccæ in a broad laugh were consistent with the placidity of beauty, or the scream of the heart-excited risibility were in accordance with the formula of high breeding. Buxom in her person, and gay in her manners, she formed the most enchanting baggage of all the care-killing damsels of her day—the most exquisite ronion that ever chased Melancholy from her yellow throne on the face of Hypochondria, or threw the cracker of her persiflage into the midst of the crew of blue devils that bind down care-worn mortals by the bonds of ennui. She was no antiquary, even in the limited sense of her father's study of the science of cobwebs; being rather given to neoterics, or the science which teaches the qualities of things of to-day or yesterday. Age in all things she hated with a very good feminine spirit of detestation; and, following up her principles, she arrived at the conclusion that youth and beauty were two of the very best qualities that could be possessed by a lover. Her father's impassioned praises of the old branches of the tree of the Innerkepples—comprehending the brave Ludovick, who fell at Homildon, and the memorable Walter, who sold his life at the price of a score of fat Englishmen at the red Flodden—produced only her best and loudest laugh, as she figured to herself the folly
of preferring the rugged trunk to the green branches that suspend at their points the red-cheeked apple full of sweetness and juice. Neither cared the hilarious damsel much for the reverend turrets of Innerkepple. Her father's description, full of good humour as it was, of the various perils they had passed, and the service they had done their country, seemed to her, as she stood on the old walls, listening to the narrative, like the croak of the old corbies that sat on the pinnacles; and her laugh came again full of glee through the loopholes, or echoed from the battered curtain or recesses of the ballium.
That such a person as merry old Innerkepple should have a bitter and relentless foe in the proprietor of the old strength called Otterstone, in the neighbourhood, is one of the most instructive facts connected with the system of war and pillage that prevailed on the Borders, principally during the reign of Henry VIII. of England and James V. of Scotland, when the spirit of religion furnished a cause of aggression that could not have been afforded by the pugnacious temperaments of the victims of attack. Magnus Fotheringham of Otterstone had had a deadly feud with Kenneth Kennedy, the father of the good old Innerkepple, and ever since had nourished against his neighbour a deadly spite, which he had taken many means of gratifying. His opponent had acted merely on the defensive; but his plea had been so well vindicated by his retainers, who loved him with the affection of children, that the splenetic aggressor had been twice repulsed with great slaughter. Most readily would the jovial baron, who had never given any cause of offence, have seized upon the demon of Enmity, and, obtorto collo, forced the fiend into the smoking flagon of spiced wine, while he held out the hand of friendship to his hereditary foe; but such was Otterstone's inveteracy, that he would not meet him but with arms in his hands, so that all the endeavours of
the warm-hearted and jolly Innerkepple to overcome the hostility of his neighbour, were looked upon as secret modes of wishing to entrap him, and take vengeance on him for his repeated attacks upon the old castle.
Some short time previous to the period about which we shall become more interested, Innerkepple, with twenty rangers, was riding the marches of his property, when he was set upon by his enemy, who had nearly twice that number of retainers. Taking up with great spirit the plea of their lord, the men who were attacked rallied round the old chief, and fought for him like lions, drowning (perhaps purposely) in the noise of the battle the cries of Innerkepple, who roared, at the top of his voice—
"Otterstone, man—hear me!—A pint o' my auld Canary will do baith you and me mair guid than a' that bluid o' your men and mine. Stop the fecht, man. I hae nae feud against you, an' I'm no answerable for the wrangs o' thy father Kenneth."
These peaceful words were lost amidst the sounds of the battle, and Otterstone construed the contortions of the peacemaker into indications of revenge, and his bawling was set down as his mode of inspiriting his followers. The fight accordingly progressed, old Innerkepple at intervals holding up a white handkerchief as a sign of peace; but which, having been used by him in stopping the wounds of one of his men, was received with its blood-marks as a signal of revenge, both by his men and those of the aggressor. The strife accordingly increased, and all was soon mixed up in the confusion of the melée.