Chapter 2

Beyond the honour of an occasional pinch of the ears, or that kind, homely greeting which in passing he bestowed on all of us, young and old, I did not and could not know him personally. But, from those who did, I have always heard the highest estimate of his character, intellectually and morally. He possessed extensive information; but rather that of a man who had moved much about, and observed much, than from book-lore. His understanding was of the most masculine order--in all his views and judgments, distinguished by clearness, decision, and energy. But his great mental characteristic seems to have been _wisdom_--that fine, just inward sense of things, which, like poetry, is born in a man, not acquired--the result, generally, as in his case, of an innate power, combined with large, varied, and calming experience. Like most men of this stamp, he had both a keen sense of the humorous, and a racy talent for it; abounded in sententious, remarkable sayings; and had a dash of playfulness and eccentricity which gave a zest to his many solid excellences. The physician who attended his deathbed, often expressed regret that he had not kept a memorandum of his many striking observations during the short period of his illness. His character, morally, may be summed up in its two polar qualities--justice the most austere, generosity the most tender and boundless. Interwoven through his whole dispositions and actions was a strong, vehement temperament, which infused into all he said and did a vivid intensity, which would sometimes degenerate into sallies of passion, but which, upon the whole, raised and exalted his character to the true heroic dimensions. His factor, a respectable Edinburgh burgess, a gunsmith by trade, whom he had selected for no aptitude but from the freak of the name (Innes), could not always appreciate his schemes of improvement on the estate, which really were not based on economic considerations, but were meant to afford large means of employment to the people. In consequence, the duke, though he respected him greatly, would sometimes be ruffled, and blurt out a harsh thing at his expense. Walking with him one day in the fields, he was explaining with the most animated eloquence, where he intended to make some drains. "But," interrupted the burgess-factor, only thinking of the balance-sheet, "you will spend a great deal of money." "Yes," retorted the old nobleman, with ineffable contempt; "you have guessed my object: I _will_ spend a great deal of money." Then, turning quick on his heel, "You know more about the barrel of an old gun than about drains." After one of those sallies, the factor, who resided a few miles from Fleurs, and had swallowed and forgotten the bitter dose, was preparing, about twelve o'clock at night, to go to bed, when there was a sharp, sudden ring at the door-bell. It was a messenger from the duke, with a letter, in which he stated, that, in reflecting on the incidents of the day before retiring to rest, he felt remorse for the taunt which he had uttered; that it was the ebullition of the moment, but cruel and unkind; and that he could not sleep until he had received forgiveness. It may be conceived in what ardent terms the factor replied, and with what redoubled attachment he regarded and served such a master! This was no exceptional blink of goodness. It was only a specimen of his habit of justice, even against himself--of his magnanimity and generous candour--changeless as the sun.

During the just, benignant sway of the "good Duke James," perhaps Fleurs was the happiest place of all Scotland to live in;--not a happier could be in the wide world. To have been born and brought up there, and in one's childhood to have had such a taste of the "golden age," I have always esteemed the sweetest privilege of life. No one can become utterly sour, no one can lose faith and hope in humanity, who was nurtured on the milk and honey of Fleurs, under "good Duke James." Poetry and enthusiasm must spring eternal in his breast. This is no illusion from the fancies of boyhood. Ask the old peasant of Tweedside--a mature, hardy man then--and he will tell, with a glow on his cheek, and a tear, due to remembrance, in his eye, "Ah! the Fleurs was a braw place under auld Duke Jemmy!" Nature, industry, peace, mirth, love, a kindred soul between duke and people, seemed to breathe in every gale there, and sing in the matins and vespers of every bird. There the _lyric joyousness_, characteristic of the Scottish people when allowed freely to develop, expanded itself to the utmost of its power and fervour. Fleurs was like the "Ida Vale" of Spenser:--

"In Ida vale, (who knows not Ida vale?) When harmless Troy yet felt not Grecian spite, An hundred shepherds wonn'd; and in the dale, While their fair flocks the three-leaved pastures bite, The shepherd boys, with hundred sportings light, Gave wings unto the time's too speedy haste."

In our old, picturesque Saxon form of speech, the husband was the "_bread-winner_." Duke James was emphatically the "_bread-giver_." To furnish employment, to diffuse comfort and happiness amongst the employed, was the all-absorbing object of his life. Anything that would have ministered to his own luxury and glorification was but little heeded. There might be pleasure-grounds more ornamental than his, walks more trim, conservatories more gaudily replenished with exotics, chambers more resplendent with costly furniture and pictures by the great masters, equipage more gay and dashing--in all that belonged to the _personnel_, he was plain and moderate; but where was there ever such planting of forests, or cutting of timber, or building of this and the other structure--all kinds of heavy works, employing hundreds of hands? On many of the high labour-festivals which signalised the calendar at Fleurs, upwards of _three hundred people_, all earning their livelihood under his patriarchal sway, would dine together in the court, and dance together on the velvet lawn in front of his castle. At six o'clock on a mild summer evening, what a spectacle, to see Fleurs gate thrown wide open, and troop after troop of labourers _debouche_!--not worn-out, fagged, and sullen, but marching with alacrity and cheerfulness--the younger lilting a merry song, the older and more careful carrying home fagots of wood, gathered at their resting hours, to supply the fire for their cheap evening meal. And all had some story to tell of the _Duke_!--some little trait of kindness, or some of those drolleries in which he would occasionally indulge, but ever without loss of dignity. He used to walk for hours together beside my grandfather whilst holding the plough--a wise and holy man, an Abraham amongst the people--and converse with him as brother with brother, especially on the incidents of his own life, and on matters of religion. On his coming forward, my grandfather would take off his hat; but the duke would stop him, and say, "Keep on your hat, James. It 's all very well to teach the young fellows manners, but there 's no ceremony between you and me; we are equals--two plain old men." His servants, of whatever degree, dined together in the common hall; but some of the more aspiring "ambitioned" (as the Yankees say) a separate table. One of them, who was supposed to be rather a favourite, was deputed to break the project to the duke, and obtain his consent at some propitious moment. Thinking he had him one day in a most accommodating temper, he cautiously hinted the scheme, and gradually waxed bolder, and disclosed all particulars, as the duke seemed to listen with tacit approval. "Well, well," answered the duke, carelessly, "all my servants are alike to me. You may dine at one table, or at twenty, if you can so arrange it. But whatever the number"--here his voice rose ominously, and his eye flashed with anger--"you, sirrah, shall dine at the lowest!" The great question of the "tables" was crushed. Sometimes--after the fashion of Haroun al Raschid, though not in disguise--he would steal down quietly and unperceived, through the out-of-the-way holes and corners of the immense castle, to see with his own eyes what the inhabitants of the remoter regions were about. Some dry joke, or some act of benevolence, according to circumstances, was sure to be the result. As he was one day poking through the passages, he suddenly encountered an enormously big, fat servant-woman, engaged in cleaning a stair. She was steaming with perspiration. Eyeing her curiously for a moment, "Ho, ho!" he cried (his usual introductory exclamation), "do _you_ bake the bread?" The woman, staring in astonishment, and, fortunately for her own self-complacency, not understanding the point of the strange question, replied, "No, your grace, that is not my department; I am in the laundry, and my business is"--"Oh, never mind," said the duke, with the look of one greatly relieved, "I am perfectly satisfied so you don't bake the bread." A decayed gentleman, who had found harbourage at Fleurs, was staying rather longer than convenient. It was in the depth of winter, and the ground was covered with snow. The duke, who was an early riser in all seasons, had been out for his morning walk; and on his return proceeded to the gentleman's room, who was still in bed. "You lazy lie-a-bed!" exclaimed the duke, "there 's a snow-ball for you--and there 's another--and there 's another," and suiting the action to the word, he discharged into the bed upon him a shower of white-looking balls; but they happened to be, not snow-balls, but pound-notes squeezed into the shape--report said, twenty in number. The gentleman took the practical but benevolent hint, and departed, carrying with him the snow-balls, not melted. In his more serious mood, he, one Sabbath, met a girl returning from church, and inquired what church she had been attending. He then walked with her a long time, discoursing upon the slight shades of difference amongst the various religious denominations, and concluded, "I shall not see it, but I believe that, in course of time, there will be only one sheepfold under the one Shepherd."

Labour at Fleurs was a twin to mirth. We were always having festivities. The duke was ingenious in devising reasons for them. Because he was Scotch by origin, he celebrated all the peculiar Scottish festivals; because he was English by residence, he celebrated all the peculiar English festivals; because in his youth the "Old Style" of computing the year was still used, he first of all held Old Year's Day, and New Year's Day, and Twelfth Night, according to the new style, and then repeated the observance all over again, according to the old style. And there was a constant succession, the whole year through, of birth-days, and the commemoration of public holidays and rejoicings.

"It was a merry place in days of yore."

Suppose summer shining in all its pride, and that labour is to enjoy one of its highest festivals at Fleurs. All work ceases at noon; and by two, the people, dressed in holiday attire, muster at the trysting-spot, and march in a body to the castle, preceded by Tam Anderson, the duke's piper, a grave, old-fashioned man, in livery of green coat and black velvet breeches--a fossil specimen he of what the Border minstrel once was, when his art was in its prime. As Tam drones away on his bagpipe "Lumps o' Puddin'," and "Brose and Butter," they take their places at three long tables, covering a large court. Three hundred workpeople and their families are there; for the duke sternly forbids any but his own people to be present. It is in vain for me, whose knowledge of cookery never extended beyond the Edinburgh student's fare of mince collops and Prestonpans beer, to attempt a description of this monster-feast--the mountains of beef and dumplings, the wilderness of pasties and tarts, the orchardfuls of fruit, the oceans of strong ale--the very fragments of which would have been enough to carry a garrison through a twelvemonth's siege. After having "satiated themselves with eating and drinking," like the large-stomached heroes of the antique world, they had an hour's interval for sauntering, that healthy digestion might have time to arrange and stow away the immense load which the vessel had just taken in. Again, however, they marshalled to the piper's warning note, playing, "Fy, let us a' to the bridal!" and this time marched to the spacious, smooth, and beautiful lawn in front of the castle, where _Givan's Band_ awaited their arrival, and the dance speedily began. The merriment now swelled to ecstacy; lads and lasses leaped through and through, as on the wings of zephyrs; a hundred couples bounding at once on the green sward; the old folks chiming in the chorus of universal laughter, and snapping their fingers to the dances in which they had no longer the strength and nimbleness to join; the youngsters getting up mimic reels in sly corners; and the music seeming to stir into delight the branches of the great elms which festooned this ball-room of nature. But was there not something awanting to complete the unity of the scene? Where was the presiding divinity?

" ... _Deus_ nobis hæc otia fecit, Namque erit ille mihi semper deus."

Oh, for an hour past he has been watching the rustic carnival from yonder portico, with his gracious duchess (much his junior), his true help-meet in everything good, courteous, and benevolent! At length he descends into the circle, with a smile to all, a word of recognition to this one, a light airy jest at the expense of that one, and a responsive _hooch_ to the wild, whirling dancers. As he advances, all the pretty girls draw themselves up to catch his eye, and to have the honour of his hand in the dance. He strolls about, peering gently, until, in some obscure corner, he espies a young, shy, modest damsel, the lowliest there, whom no one is noticing, a lowly worker in the back kitchen, or even in the fields. Her he selects--blushing with surprise and a tumult of nameless emotions--to be Queen of the festival; he pats her on the shoulders, whispers paternal-gallant things in her ear, and calling lustily for "Tullochgorum" from the fiddlers, leads her gracefully through the dance, himself--though upwards of eighty--throwing some steps of the Highland Fling, snapping his fingers, and _hooching_ in unison with the impassioned throng of youths around him--those young stately plants who have grown up under the dew and shelter of his benign protection. When the dance is finished, kissing her on the cheek, he leads his little simple partner back to her seat, and leaves her in a delicious vision of the good old duke, who had distinguished her, sitting solitary and unnoticed, above all her companions, and placed the coronal upon her brow, queen of the festival. As he returns slowly to the castle, there is an involuntary pause in the merry-making. The musicians lay down their bows, the youths stop short in the mazes of the Bacchic dance, the spectators stand up uncovered, the subtle electric chain of love and loyalty passes between duke and people, and a grand universal "hurrah!" rings through the welkin--the outburst of gratitude, reverence, and joy. It is touching, solemn, sublime, this pause and outburst of feeling in the midst of the wild festal scene. Not a maiden there but loves him as she would a father; not a stalwart hind but, if need were, would die in defence of his old chief. "When the ear hears him, then it blesses him; and when the eye sees him, it gives witness to him; because he delivers the poor that cry, and the fatherless, and him that has none to help him. The blessing of him that is ready to perish comes upon him; and he causes the widow's heart to sing for joy. He puts on righteousness, and it clothes him; his judgment is as a robe and a diadem."

But eighty-six years are a heavy load on the shoulders even of a giant. The grasshopper at length becomes a burden to the strongest and most cheerful. News came from the Castle that our old duke was unwell, was confined to his room, then to his bed. One morning--I remember it as if yesterday--as I was walking through the court-yard with one of the farm-servants, the butler looked from a window above, shook his head mournfully, folded his arms across his breast, and bent his eyes towards the ground. We read his meaning at a glance,--"The good Duke James was dead!" For days and days the people gave way to a deep, even a passionate grief, as if each had lost a beloved father, and was left to all the loneliness and privation of an orphan's lot. The body, or rather the coffin which enclosed it, was laid out in state; and they were allowed to take a last farewell of their chief. His valet, a favourite servant, stood at the head, with his handkerchief almost constantly over his eyes, scarcely able to hide his tears. The chamber was dimly lighted, and filled with all the emblems of woe--in this case no mimicry. All walked round, slowly and solemnly--the ancients of the hamlet, the stalwart peasantry, and the women leading the children by the hand--all gazing intently on the spot where the dead lay, as if even yet to catch a glimpse of that piercing eye and benignant smile. The silence was profound, awful, but for a throbbing under-hum as of stifled breath, broken ever and anon by a sharp sob--the "hysterica passio," the "climbing sorrow," which even reverence and self-restraint could no longer keep down. The day of the funeral arrived. His remains were to be borne about twelve miles off, to Bowden, under the shadow of the three-peaked Eildons, for there the ancient vault is where lie "the race of the house of Roxburghe." The long, long line of mourning carriages I well remember; but these only spoke the general respect and commonplace regret of the neighbourhood, which are incident to such an occasion. His _people_ in their hundreds--these were his mourners! The younger and stronger of them, in one way or other, accompanied the death procession to the last resting-place. The women of the place, leading the children, went down, all weeping as they went, to a bend in the Tweed, where there would be a last view of the funeral train. There it was!--darkly marching on the opposite bank, winding round the mouldering hillock which was once Roxburgh Castle, and finally disappearing--disappearing for ever!--behind that pine-covered height! As the last of the train floated and melted away from the horizon, we all sunk to the ground at once, as if struck by some instantaneous current; and such a wail rose that day as Tweed never heard; whilst an echoing voice seemed to cry along his banks, and into the depth of his forests--"The last of the Patriarch-Dukes has departed!"

One instance is worth a thousand dissertations. And the above thin water-colour sketch of a _real popular life_, though presenting only one or two out of an endless variety of its phases, will give a more distinct conception than a volume of fanciful generalities could, of what I mean by the lyric joyousness of the Scottish people; and is, besides, a sincere, though mean and unworthy tribute to the virtues of a true patriarchal nobleman, about the last of the race, whose name, if the world were not too apt to forget its most excellent ones, would be eternised in the memory of mankind.

It is from this soil--this sensitive and fervid national temperament--that there has sprung up such a harvest of ballads, and songs, and heart-moving, soul-breathing melodies. Hence the hearty old habits and curious suggestive customs of the people: the hospitality, exuberant as Abraham's, who sat in the tent-door bidding welcome even to the passing traveller; the merry-meetings and "rockings" in the evening, where each had to contribute his or her song or tale, and at the same time ply some piece of work; the delight in their native dances, furious and whirling as those of the Bacchantes; the "Guisarding" of the boys at Christmas, relic of old-world plays, when the bloody melodrama finished off into the pious benediction--

"God bless the master of the house, The mistress also, And all the pretty babies That round the table go;"

the "first foot," on New Year's morning, when none must enter a house empty-handed; the "Hogmanay," or first Monday of the new year, when the whole boys and girls invaded the country-side, and levied from the peaceful inhabitants black-mail of cakes, and cheese, and ha'pence--

"Get up, gudewife! and shake your feathers, Dinna think that we are beggars; We are bairns come out to play, Rise up and gie 's our Hogmanay!"--

the "Halloween," whose rites of semi-diablerie have been immortalised by Burns; and the "Kirn," or Harvest Home, the wind-up of the season, the epitome of the lyric joyousness of the whole year. Hence it is that under an exterior, to strangers so reserved, austere, and frigid, they all cherish some romantic thought, or feeling, or dream: they are all inly imbued with an enthusiasm which surmounts every obstacle, and burns the deeper and faster the more it is repressed. Every one of us, calling up the history of our own little circle of cottage mates and schoolfellows, could recount numerous pregnant examples of this national characteristic. And hence, also, after wandering the wide world, and buffeting in all the whirlpools of life, cautiously waiting chances, cannily slipping in when the door opens, and struggling for distinction or wealth in all kinds of adventure, and under the breath of every clime--there are few, indeed, of our people, when twilight begins to gather over their path, but turn towards the light that comes from their old homes; and would fain pass a serene and meditative old age by the burnside where they "paidled" in their youth, and lay down their bones beside their fathers in the kirkyard of yon calm sequestered glen. Scott went down to the nether springs of the national character when he made his "Last Minstrel" sing--

"By Yarrow's stream still let me stray, Though none should guide my feeble way; Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break, Although it chill my wither'd cheek; Still lay my head by Teviot stone!"

Times have changed, it is true, even within the comparatively short space which has elapsed since the death of the Good Duke James of Roxburghe. Or rather, he was the last lingering representative of an age, of ideas, of a state of manners--lovely, but transitional--which had even then vanished, except the parting ray that fell on that one glistening spot. It was the transition from Mediæval Clanship to Modern Individualism--from that form of society where thousands clustered devotedly round the banner of one, their half-worshipped chief, to the present fashion, where it is, "Every man for himself, and God for us all!" Yet the period of transition was a golden age. It was a golden age--I know it, for I lived in it. There was the old patriarchy--the feeling, undefinable to those who have not experienced the same state of life, as if gods walked upon earth; and with this patriarchal, overshadowing, protecting sway, derived from the old, there was blended the modern recognition of the rights and dignity of man--the humblest man--as an individual. Thrown, as we all now are, into the modern anarchy, hurly-burly, and caricaturism, when fathers are "old governors," and dukes are served solely for their wages and pickings, like Mr Prog, the sausage-vendor, and the gentle look of respect and courtesy has been exchanged for the puppy's stare through a quizzing-glass; is it not something to have lived in the more reverent primitive state, to have tasted its early vernal freshness, and basked in its sunshine of loyal homage, and beautiful and stately repose?