the Duke burst into one of his ringing laughs—the fine, deep Ho, ho! that would drown all our effeminate modern gigglings, the sound of which lingers amongst the memories of my boyhood. "He well deserves it—he well deserves it—the wretch! Ho, ho!"—and he shouted with laughter, and threw himself into all the rough unceremonious humour of the ballad, finishing off by relating his own dire experience of the doings of Cumberland and his dragoons in the north. It seems he entered into the army, and served in the American war. After retiring, I believe he took up his residence in England—Devonshire, I think; his name at this time was Sir James Norcliffe Innes. During the once-belauded "good old times" of George III. he distinguished himself by holding and manfully avowing opinions which were then branded as Jacobinism; and he was an intimate friend, and I have heard an active supporter of the virtuous and patriotic Major Cartwright. About the beginning of the present century, the direct line of the Roxburghe Kers having failed, a competition arose amongst a host of claimants, for the estate and honours of that ancient House. After a most protracted and severe litigation, which forms one of the Causés Celebrés in the law-books of Scotland, Sir James Norcliffe Innes was preferred. When approaching fourscore, he was installed Duke of Roxburghe, and put on a coronet at an age, long before which most part of mankind have put on their shrouds. He put it on—ay, and for many years wore it stout and stark—nobly, loftily, sweetly—with a dignity, simplicity, large-heartedness, and munificence, the remembrance of which somehow always brings to my mind that majestic line of Shakspeare, containing, after all, only a name and title, yet sounding as the embodiment of whatever is great and heroic in human character—
"Old John of Gaunt, time-honoured Lancaster!"
I see him before me, as he lives in the recollections of childhood—as he lives and seems to speak in Raeburn's inimitable portrait at Fleurs. What a perfect mould of man! scarce one mark of old age in that face—no sign of weakness or decay in that frame, which has weathered eighty winters. He was over the middle size; straight, firm, strong built, and compact, with the air of native lordliness and command. His countenance was peculiarly beautiful, full and rounded as if young; fresh-coloured; and beaming with health, spirit, and vivacity. Its almost womanly sweetness was chastened and redeemed by the massiveness of the head, the deep penetrating eye, and an aspect of uncommon elevation and nobleness. Till the last, he was the very personification of the old Dux—the Duke of Chivalry—the foremost leader and commander of the people. But instead of chained mail and helmet, he was to be seen every day walking about amongst his people in hoddin-gray coat, nankeen breeches, white vest, and rumpled white hat—plain, easy, manly, and unaffected in all things.
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?