uence, 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_, charac