NIMROUS NORTHERN TOUR. 143 



skin/ " That was well done," resumed I ; " I should like to 

 know to whom he sold the shoes and the skin." 



On our road homewards, I, for the first time in my life, heard 

 the word "laird," applied in propria persona. " I don't see the 

 laird coming," said Mrs. Baillie, looking back towards the farm. 

 Now there is, to my ear, something soothing as well as patri- 

 archal in this word laird, and though not so high sounding 

 and aristocratical as thane, is a thousand times better than 

 squire. 



It is impossible to be long in Mr. Baillie's presence without 

 something to make you laugh. As we entered Mellerstain House, 

 a portrait in one of the passages attracted my notice. " I can 

 tell you a good anecdote about that old fellow/' said the laird ; 

 " his name was Duncan Gordon, and he was huntsman to my 

 father. There happened to be, at one time, some savage hounds 

 in his kennel, which it was by no means safe for any person to 

 approach, unless very well known to them. On the wife of this 

 man being one day seen coming out of it, by herself, she was 

 asked, if she were not afraid to trust herself there alone. ' Na, 

 na/ she replied ; ' they'll no meddle wi ? me ; I suppose they find 

 something of Duncan aboot me. 7 " This almost comes up to the 

 notion of Homer in the Odyssey, and which notion, as I have 

 read, was once popular in Scotland that dogs are sensible when 

 a good or evil spirit comes into a house : 



" The dogs intelligent confess'd the tread 

 Of power divine, and howling, trembling fled." 



After another agreeable evening within the walls of Meller- 

 stain ; another specimen of Andrew's fiddling ; a good night's 

 rest and a Scotch breakfast, I mounted my hack and returned 

 to my quarters at Chester Hall ; and with a tinge on my mind 

 that, unless deprived of recollection, can never be effaced. It 

 was my first visit to a Scotch family, and to one of which, having 

 heard and read so much, I had almost made myself believe I was 

 already acquainted with. I had also the satisfaction of knowing 

 that I had made' acquaintance of one of the first sportsmen in all 

 Scotland, and from the pressing invitation to repeat my visit, of* 

 indulging in the hope that that acquaintance was likely to be 

 continued. 



On my arrival at Chester Hall, I found a letter from Mr. 

 Ramsay of Barnton, the master of the Linlithgow and Stirling- 

 shire fox-hounds, which, besides others, haunt the West-Lothian 

 country, considered the best in Scotland. It was dated from 

 Calder House, the seat of Lord Torphichen, who is father to his 



