These gillie-wet-Foots, [A bare-footed Highland lad is called a gillie-wet-foot.  Gillie, in general, means servant or attendant.] 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 old Hardyknute—­

     Stately stepped he east the wa’,
     And stately stepped 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 SCOTORUM, and Sir David Lindsay’s works, and Barbour’s Bruce, and Blind Harry’s Wallace, and the gentle shepherd, and the cherry and the SLAE.  But though he thus far sacrificed his time to the Muses, he would if the truth must be spoken, have been much better pleased had the pious or sapient apothegms, as well as the historical narratives, which these various works contained, been presented to him in the form of simple prose.  And he sometimes could not refrain from expressing contempt of the ’vain and unprofitable art of poem-making,’ in which, he said, ’the only one who had excelled in his time was Allan Ramsay, the periwig-maker.’

[The Baron ought to have remembered that the joyous Allan literally drew his blood from the house of the noble Earl, whom he terms—­

     Dalhousie of an old descent,
     My stoup, my pride, my ornament.]