"Thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks
In Vallambrosa"--
are not like those which mark and adorn the literature of many other
countries, the euphonisms of a meretricious court, or the rhymed musings
of philosophers, or conceits from Pagan mythology, or the glancing
epigrams of men of wit and of the world, or mere hunting choruses and
Bacchanalian catches of a rude squirearchy. They are the ballads, songs,
and tunes of the people. In their own language, but that language
glittering from the hidden well of poesy--in ideas which they at once
recognise as their own, because photographed from nature--these lyrics
embody the loves and thoughts of the people, the themes on which they
delight to dwell, even their passions and prejudices; and vibrate in
their memories, quickening the pulses of life, knitting them to the Old
Land, and shedding a poetic glow over all the commonplaces of existence
and occupation. It is the faithful popular memory, more than anything
else, which has been the ark to save the ancient lyrics of Scotland. Not
only so, but there is reason to believe that our national lyrics have,
generally speaking, been creations of the men, and sometimes of the
women, of the people. They are the people's, by the title of origin, no
less than by the feeling of sympathy.
This, of course, is clear, as regards the great masters of the lyre who
have appeared within the period of known authorship--Ramsay, Burns,
Tannahill, Hogg, and Cunningham. The authors of the older lyrics--I mean
both compositions and tunes--are, with few exceptions, absolutely
unknown; but were there room here for discussion, it might be shewn that
all the probabilities lead up, principally, to the ancient order of
Minstrels, who from very early times were nearly as much organised and
privileged and honoured in Scotland, as ever were the troubadours in
Provence and Italy. Ellis, in the Introduction to his "Specimens of
Early English Metrical Romances," alluding to Scott's publication of
"Sir Tristrem," remarks--"He has shewn, by a reference to ancient
charters, that the Scottish minstrels of this early period enjoyed all
the privileges and distinctions possessed by the Norman trouveurs, whom
they nearly rivalled in the arts of narration, and over whom they
possessed one manifest advantage, in their familiar acquaintance with
the usual scenes of chivalry." These minstrels, like the majority of
poetic singers, were no doubt sons of the people--bold, aspiring, and
genius-lit--bursting strong from their mother earth, with all her sap
and force and fruitfulness about them. Amongst the last of the professed
minstrels was one Burn, who wonned on the Borders as late as the
commencement of the eighteenth century, and who, in his pleasant,
chirping ditty of "Leader Haughs and Yarrow," takes to himself this very
title of _Minstrel_.
"But Minstrel Burn cannot assuage
His grief while life endureth,
To see the changes of this age,
That fleeting time procureth.
For many a place stands in hard case,
Where blythe folk kenn'd nae sorrow,
With Homes that dwelt on Leader-side,
And Scotts that dwelt on Yarrow."
Of this minstrel Burn there is a quaint little personal reminiscence. An
aged person at Earlstoun many years ago related, that there used to be a
portrait of the minstrel in Thirlestane Castle, near Lauder,
"representing him as a douce old man, _leading a cow by a straw-rope_."
The master of the "gay science" gradually slipping down from the clouds,
and settling quietly and doucely on the plain hard ground of ordinary
life and business! Let all pale-faced and sharp-chinned youths, who are
spasmodic poets, or who are in danger of becoming such, keep steadily
before them the picture of minstrel Burn, "leading a cow by a
straw-rope"--and go and do likewise.
But as trees and flowers can only grow and come to perfection in soils
by nature appropriate to them, so it is manifest that all this rich and
fertile growth of lyrics, of minstrelsy and music, could only spring up
amongst a people most impressionable and joyous. I speak of the Lowland
population, and especially of the Borderers, with whose habits, manners
and customs, alone I am personally acquainted; and the lingering traces
of whose old forms of life--so gay, kindly, and suggestive--I saw some
thirty years ago, just before they sank under the mammonism,
commonplace, critical apery, and cold material self-seeking, which have
hitherto been the plague of the present generation. We have become more
practical and knowing than our forefathers, but not so wise. We are now
a "fast people;" but we miss the true goal of life--that is, _sober
happiness_. Fast to smattering; fast to outward, isolated show; fast to
bankruptcy; fast to suicide; fast to some finalé of enormous and
dreadful infamy. Bah! rather the plain, honest, homely life of our
grandfathers--
"Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool, sequester'd vale of life,
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way."
Or rather (for every age has its own type, and old forms of life cannot
be stereotyped and reproduced), let us have a philosophic and Christian
combination of modern adventure and "gold-digging" with old-fashioned
balance of mind, and neighbourliness, and open-heartedness, and thankful
enjoyment.
Our Scottish race have been--yes, and notwithstanding modern changes,
still are--a joyous people--a people full of what I shall term _a lyric
joyousness_. I say they still are--as may be found any day up the
Ettricks, and Yarrows, and Galas--up any of our Border glens and dales.
The Borderers continue to merit the tribute paid to them in the odd but
expressive lines of Wordsworth:--
"The _pleasant men of Tiviotdale_,
Fast by the river Tweed."
From time immemorial they have been enthusiastic lovers of song and
music, and have been thoroughly imbued with their influences. Bishop
Leslie, a contemporary of the state of manners which he describes, has
recorded of them, upwards of two centuries ago--"That they take extreme
delight in their music, and in their ballads, which are composed amongst
themselves, celebrating the deeds of their ancestors, or the valour and
success of their predatory expeditions;" which latter, it must be
remembered, were esteemed, in those days, not only not criminal, but
just, honourable, and heroic. What a gush of mirth overflows in king
James' poem of "Peebles to the Play," descriptive of the Beltane or
May-day festival, four hundred years ago! at Peebles, a charming
pastoral town in the upper district of the vale of the Tweed:--
"At Beltane, when ilk body bouns
To Peebles to the play,
To hear the singin' and the soun's,
The solace, sooth to say.
By firth and forest forth they wound,
They graithit them full gay:
God wot what they would do that stound,
For it was their feast-day,
They said,
Of Peebles to the play!
* * * * *
"Hop, Calye, and Cardronow
Gatherit out thick-fald,
With, _Hey and How and Rumbelow!_
The young folk were full bald.
The bagpipe blew, and they out threw
Out of the towns untald:
Lord! sic ane shout was them amang,
When they were owre the wald,
There west
Of Peebles to the play!"
Thirty years ago, the same joyousness prevailed in a thousand forms--in
hospitality, in festivity, in merry customs, in an exquisite social
sense, in the culture of the humorous and the imaginative, in
impressibility to every touch of noble and useful enthusiasm. It would
be easy to dilate upon the causes which seem to have produced this
choice joyous spirit in so unexpected a region as the far, bleak North:
but that would be a lengthened subject; and we must content ourselves at
present with the fact. And, instead of branching out into general vague
illustrations of what I mean by this lyric joyousness, I shall
_localise_ it, and embody the meaning in a sketch, light and imperfect
it must be, of a real place and a real life--such as mine own eyes
witnessed when a boy--and in the fond resuscitation of which, amidst the
usual struggles and anxieties allotted to middle age, memory and feeling
now find one of their most soothing exercises.
Let me transport the reader in imagination to the Vale of the Tweed,
that classic region--the Arcadia of Scotland, the haunt of the Muses,
the theme of so many a song, the scene of so many a romantic legend. And
there, where that most crystalline of rivers has attained the fulness of
its beauty and splendour--just before it meets and mingles in gentle
union with its scarce less beauteous sister, "sweet Teviot"--on one of
those finely swelling eminences which everywhere crown its banks, rise
the battlements of Fleurs Castle, which has long been the seat of the
Roxburghe family. It is a peerless situation; the great princely
mansion, ever gleaming on the eye of the traveller, at whatever point he
may be, in the wide surrounding landscape. It comes boldly out from the
very heart of an almost endless wood--old, wild, and luxuriant; having
no forester but nature--spreading right, left, and behind, away and
away, till lost in the far horizon. Down a short space in front, a green
undulating haugh between, roll the waters of the Tweed, with a bright
clear radiance to which the brightest burnished silver is but as dimness
and dross. On its opposite bank is a green huge mound--all that now
remains of the mighty old Roxburgh Castle, aforetime the military key of
Scotland, and within whose once towering precincts oft assembled the
royalty, and chivalry, and beauty of both kingdoms. At a little distance
to the east of Fleurs, the neat quaint abbey-town of Kelso, with its
magnificent bridge, nestles amid greenery, close to the river. And afar
to the south, the eye, tired at last with so vast a prospect, and with
such richness and variety of scenery, rests itself on the cloud-capt
range of the Cheviots, in amplitude and grandeur not unmeet to sentinel
the two ancient and famous lands.
Upwards of thirty years ago, the ducal coronet of Roxburghe was worn by
a nobleman who was then known, and is still remembered on Tweedside, as
the "Good Duke James." The history of his life, were there any one now
to tell it correctly, would be replete with interest. I cannot pretend
to authentic knowledge of it; but I know the outline as I heard it when
a child--as it used to be recited, like a minstrel's tale, by the
gray-haired cottager sitting at his door of a summer evening, or by some
faithful old servant of the castle, on a winter's night, over his flagon
of ale, at the rousing hall-fire. And from all I have ever learned
since, I judge that these country stories in the main were accurate.
He was not by birth a _Ker_--the family name of the house of
Roxburghe--descended of the awful "Habbie Ker" in Queen Mary's troublous
time, the Taille-Bois of the Borders, the Ogre-Baron of tradition, whose
name is still whispered by the peasant with a kind of _eeriness_, as if
he might start from his old den at Cessford, and pounce upon the rash
speaker. Duke James was an Innes of the "north countrie;" Banff or
Cromarty. He was some eight years of age in the dismal '45. Though his
father was Hanoverian, the "Butcher" Cumberland shewed him but little
favour in the course of his merciless ravages after Culloden. A troop of
dragoons lived at free quarters on his estate; and one of them, in mere
wanton cruelty, fired at the boy when standing at his father's door, and
the ball grazed his face. Seventy years afterwards, when he was duke,
the Ettrick Shepherd happened to dine at Fleurs. He was then collecting
his "Jacobite Relics," and the Duke asked him what was his latest
ballad? The Shepherd answered, it was a version of "Highland Laddie." He
sang it. On coming to the verse,
"Ken ye the news I hae to tell,
Bonnie Laddie, Highland Laddie,
Cumberland's awa' to hell,
Bonnie Laddie, Highland Laddie!"
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?
" ... _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?
Yet far be it from me to croak as the "laudator temporis acti." Past,
present, and future--all are divine--all are parts of a celestial
scheme--none to be scorned, all to be loved and improved. But the past
is under the sod; the future is behind the clouds; the present alone has
its foot upon the green sward. In a higher sense than the epicure's, it
is "_our own_." Let us, then, appreciate, exalt, and enjoy it. There are
good and glorious signs in our present, amid much that is of earth
earthy, and of self selfish. If man has become more isolated, more
rigidly defined, and has been stript of most of his old pictorial
haloes--he is also beginning to display a plain, honest, equal,
fraternal yearning and sympathy, man to man. Our hard material age shews
the buddings of a poetry of its own. Streams shall gush from the rock.
If there were, in the days of loyal Clanhood, joyousness, and generous
susceptibility, festive reliefs to labour, and reverence for greatness;
why should not this be so even more, under the influence of common
Brotherhood? "Charity never faileth!" Everything dies but charity and
joy. Even in the general conflagration, these will be exhaled from
earth, only to burst forth afresh in heaven--"a pure river of water of
life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God."