er
greyhounds, and presiding over half a dozen curs, and about as many
bare-legged and bare-headed boys, who, to procure the chosen distinction
of attending on the chase, had not failed to tickle his ears with the
dulcet appellation of Maister Gellatley, though probably all and each had
hooted him on former occasions in the character of daft Davie. But this
is no uncommon strain of flattery to persons in office, nor altogether
confined to the barelegged villagers of Tully-Veolan; it was in fashion
Sixty Years Since, is now, and will be six hundred years hence, if this
admirable compound of folly and knavery, called the world, shall be then
in existence.

These Gillie-wet-foots, as they were called, were destined to beat the
bushes, which they performed with so much success, that, after half an
hour's search, a roe was started, coursed, and killed; the Baron
following on his white horse, like Earl Percy of yore, and magnanimously
flaying and embowelling the slain animal (which, he observed, was called
by the French chasseurs, faire la curee) with his own baronial couteau de
chasse. After this ceremony, he conducted his guest homeward by a
pleasant and circuitous route, commanding an extensive prospect of
different villages and houses, to each of which Mr. Bradwardine attached
some anecdote of history or genealogy, told in language whimsical from
prejudice and pedantry, but often respectable for the good sense and
honourable feelings which his narrative displayed, and almost always
curious, if not valuable, for the information they contained.

The truth is, the ride seemed agreeable to both gentlemen, because they
found amusement in each other's conversation, although their characters
and habits of thinking were in many respects totally opposite. Edward, we
have informed the reader, was warm in his feelings, wild and romantic in
his ideas and in his taste of reading, with a strong disposition towards
poetry. Mr Bradwardine was the reverse of all this, and piqued himself
upon stalking through life with the same upright, starched, stoical
gravity which distinguished his evening promenade upon the terrace of
Tully-Veolan, where for hours together--the very model of old
Hardyknute--

Stately stepp'd he east the wa',
And stately stepp'd he west

As for literature, he read the classic poets, to be sure, and the
'Epithalamium' of Georgius Buchanan and Arthur Johnston's Psalms, of a
Sunday; and the 'Deliciae Poetarum