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 t