i 3 8 N1MROUS NORTHERN TOUR. 



of hounds, horses, men, and women, until another scene was to 

 open to our view the drawing-room, where for the first time, I 

 saw the dancing of the Highland reel, to its own proper music, 

 and in its own proper form. No sooner was coffee over, but the 

 sound of music arose in one part of this large room, and as if by 

 the tap of the enchanter's wand all present, excepting Mr. and 

 Mrs. Baillie and myself, were upon their legs in one minute, and 

 in " attitude," as the fighting men used to say, in another. But 

 the music ! It was not " Daughter of Toscar, bring my Harp ;" 

 but the chief performer in this rapid, and consequently difficult 

 execution, was Andrew Lwmsden, the laird's old huntsman, and 

 how little soever in accordance may be the unison of huntsman 

 and fiddler, Scotland cannot, I understand, show a better per- 

 former in this department of the fiddling art, than the said 

 Andrew, whose ear was once, perhaps, more tuned to more con- 

 genial sounds. Being no judge of music, I have pronounced this 

 encomium on Andrew, upon authority better than my own ; but 

 I must say, as far as I am a judge, he is capital over the cat-gut, 

 whatever he might have been over the grass, on Vixen, Snip, or 

 Rattler, his three favourite hunters, which he is very fond of talk- 

 ing of, but which I, to my cost, never saw. I can only say, I 

 stood by his side this evening whilst he accompanied one of the 

 young ladies on her pianoforte, in a Highland reel, and I can 

 answer for his having gone the pace then. No fiddler's elbow, I 

 should think, ever travelled faster. 



Between the reels I had a word or two with Andrew, whose 

 old soul seemed mellowed first, by the inspiration of music, 

 which he appeared really to enjoy ; secondly, by seeing his worthy 

 master's family amusing themselves, partly through his means ; 

 and lastly, by a jug of good Scotch ale which he had very nearly 

 found the bottom of. " The wrong sort of music this, for you, 

 Andrew/' said I to him, in a kind of under tone. " It's no like 

 t'other," said he, " I ken what you mean ; but its no much amiss 

 when a man grows auld." I looked at Andrew, then at his 

 master, and muttered to my self, "I wish I could give you both the 

 Promethean touch of youth." "You appear to have escaped 

 well, Andrew," resumed I, " after hunting hounds so long in so 

 many rough countries." " Wall," replied he, " there's no much 



i eyes brightening ; 

 Rattler were but wee morsels to look at, but not many could gang 

 by them, wi' a hull" (ahill) "in their teeth." " Thorough-bred ones 

 of course," I observed. Andrew nodded assent, and putting the 

 fiddle under his chin, obeyed the signal for another reel. He 



