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!"