When they were seated under the sooty rafters of
Luckie Macleary's only apartment, thickly tapestried with cobwebs, their
hostess, who had already taken her cue from the Laird of Balmawhapple,
appeared with a huge pewter measuring-pot, containing at least three
English quarts, familiarly denominated a TAPPIT HEN, and which, in the
language of the hostess, reamed (i.e. mantled) with excellent claret,
just drawn from the cask.
It was soon plain that what crumbs of reason the Bear had not devoured,
were to be picked up by the Hen; but the confusion which appeared to
prevail favoured Edward's resolution to evade the gaily circling glass.
The others began to talk thick and at once, each performing his own part
in the conversation, without the least respect to hist neighbour. The
Baron of Bradwardine sang French CHANSONS-A-BOIRE, and spouted pieces
of Latin; Killancureit talked, in a steady unalterable dull key,
of top-dressing and bottom-dressing, [This has been censured as an
anachronism; and it must be confessed that agriculture of this kind was
unknown to the Scotch Sixty Years since.] and year-olds, and gimmers,
and dinmonts, and stots, and runts, and kyloes, and a proposed
turnpike-act; while Balmawhapple, in notes exalted above both, extolled
his horse, his hawks, and a greyhound called Whistler.
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