NIM ROD'S NORTHERN TOUR. 253 



Duke of Gordon all his life ; and his Grace never passed his 

 door on his road to London, or from it, without greeting his old 

 friend and brother sportsman, Jock Proctor, with a " How do 

 you do ?" 



But I must attempt a sketch of Jock Proctor. His age I 

 should take to be between fifty and sixty, and his person of that 

 form which appears intended to defy Time. He has a fine head 

 of hair, which was only then beginning to turn grey ; and a 

 countenance betokening a mind at ease, and in perfect good 

 humour with all mankind. Whether in his youth he did apply 

 hot and rebellious liquors to his blood, it is not in my power to 

 say ; but this I can say, he will drink whiskey toddy now with 

 any man in Scotland ; and he formed a very poor opinion of me, 

 because I could get no further than the third tumbler, after our 

 wine, whilst he reached his eighth ! " What the deil are ye 

 made of, Nimrod ?" he would say, every time he made a fresh 

 glass, "ye're nae mon for Scotland, at a'." It would then be, 

 " Come, Nimrod, what are ye aboot, mon ; ye'll hae the cauld 

 (cold) in your stomach after a' that claret yeVe been drinking." 

 His start homeward in his gig was one of the richest order. 

 Luckily for himself, his servant was coachman ; but whether he 

 was as well shoed-up as his master, or whether the horse bolted, 

 is not in my power to determine, yet certain it is they were all 

 but capsized, almost as soon as they left the door, Jock calling 

 out at the time, "Will this do for ye, Mr. Nimrod?" as though 

 he were performing some wonderful feat. But such are the men 

 who do these things with impunity. The early hours they 

 generally keep, the vivifying effect of the air they breathe, and 

 the exercise they take in it, neutralize the poison of the evening 

 cup, and, although " with a hue as florid as vermillioned Jove/' 

 a healthier-looking man than Jock Proctor is I should think not 

 easily found at his age. Then I was much amused with his 

 conversation, as well as forcibly struck with the general propriety 

 of his remarks, delivered in his own peculiar style. But it is 

 this "own peculiar style" that gives them peculiar force. I 

 should say of Jock, that, what his heart thinks his tongue speaks, 

 and, as our immortal bard says of a sturdy Roman general, " he 

 would not flatter Neptune for his trident." Still, if all be true 

 that is told of him, he can whisper soft things in a female ear. 



February 2. Out of luck again with Mr. Dalyell short 

 running foxes, foiled ground, and no scent to force them off it. 

 The finish, too, was a bad one, and I mention it as a caution. 

 There was a couple of hounds from the Duke of Cleveland's 

 kennel, out this day, who, never having seen roebuck, got tied to 

 the scent of one in a large cover, where they could not well be 



