ust not call him his orderly cut-throat any more, I suppose. See how he
walks as if the world were his own, with the bonnet on one side of his
head, and his plaid puffed out across his breast! I should like now to
meet that youth where my hands were not tied: I would tame his pride, or
he should tame mine,'

'For shame, Colonel Talbot! you swell at sight of tartan, as the bull
is said to do at scarlet. You and Mac-Ivor have some points not much
unlike, so far as national prejudice is concerned.'

The latter part of this discourse took place in the street. They passed
the Chief, the Colonel and he sternly and punctiliously greeting each
other, like two duellists before they take their ground. It was evident
the dislike was mutual. 'I never see that surly fellow that dogs his
heels,' said the Colonel, after he had mounted his horse, 'but he
reminds me of lines I have somewhere heard--upon the stage, I think:

--Close behind him
Stalks sullen Bertram, like a sorcerer's fiend,
Pressing to be employed.'

'I assure you, Colonel,' said Waverley,' that you judge too harshly of
the Highlanders.'

'Not a whit, not a whit; I cannot spare them a jot--I cannot bate them
an ace. Let them stay in their own barren mountains, and puff and swell,
and hang their bonnets on the horns of the moon, if they have a mind;
but what business have they to come where people wear breeches, and
speak an intelligible language? I mean intelligible in comparison with
their gibberish, for even the Lowlanders talk a kind of English little
better than the negroes in Jamaica. I could pity the Pr--, I mean the
Chevalier himself, for having so many desperadoes about him. And they
learn their trade so early. There is a kind of subaltern imp, for
example, a sort of sucking devil, whom your friend Glenna--Glennamuck
there, has sometimes in his train. To look at him, he is about fifteen
years; but he is a century old in mischief and villany. He was playing
at quoits the other day in the court; a gentleman--a decent-looking
person enough--came past, and as a quoit hit his shin, he lifted his
cane: but my young brave whips out his pistol, like Beau Clincher in the
TRIP TO THE JUBILEE and had not a scream of GARDEZ L'EAU from an
upper window set all parties a-scampering for fear of the inevitable
consequences, the poor gentleman would have lost his life by the hands
of that little cockatrice.'

'A fine character you'll give of Scotland upon you