bar,’ cut under each hyperborean form.  The court was spacious, well paved, and perfectly clean, there being probably another entrance behind the stables for removing the litter.  Everything around appeared solitary, and would have been silent, but for the continued plashing of the fountain; and the whole scene still maintained the monastic illusion which the fancy of Waverley had conjured up.—­And here we beg permission to close a chapter of still life. [There is no particular mansion described under the name of Tully-Veolan; but the peculiarities of the description occur in various old Scottish seats.  The House of Warrender upon Bruntsfield Links, and that of Old Ravelston, belonging, the former to Sir George Warrender, the latter to Sir Alexander Keith, have both contributed several hints to the description in the text.  The House of Dean, near Edinburgh, has also some points of resemblance with Tully-Veolan.  The author has, however, been informed, that the House of Grandtully resembles that of the Baron of Bradwardine still more than any of the above.]

CHAPTER IX

MORE OF THE MANOR-HOUSE AND ITS ENVIRONS

After having satisfied his curiosity by gazing around him for a few minutes, Waverley applied himself to the massive knocker of the hall-door, the architrave of which bore the date 1594.  But no answer was returned, though the peal resounded through a number of apartments, and was echoed from the courtyard walls without the house, startling the pigeons from the venerable rotunda which they occupied, and alarming anew even the distant village curs, which had retired to sleep upon their respective dung-hills.  Tired of the din which he created, and the unprofitable responses which it excited, Waverley began to think that he had reached the castle of Orgoglio, as entered by the victorious Prince Arthur,

     When ’gan he loudly through the house to call,
     But no man cared to answer to his cry;
     There reigned a solemn silence over all,
     Nor voice was heard, nor wight was seen, in bower or hall.

Filled almost with expectation of beholding some ’old, old man, with beard as white as snow,’ whom he might question concerning this deserted mansion, our hero turned to a little oaken wicket-door, well clenched with iron nails, which opened in the courtyard wall at its angle with the house.  It was only latched, notwithstanding its fortified appearance, and, when opened, admitted him into the garden, which presented a pleasant scene. [At Ravelston may be seen such a garden, which the taste of the proprietor, the author’s friend and kinsman, Sir Alexander Keith, Knight Mareschal, has judiciously preserved.  That, as well as the house, is, however, of smaller dimensions than the Baron of Bradwardine’s mansion and garden are presumed to have been.] The southern side of the house, clothed with fruit-trees, and having