John Burnet of Barns by John Buchan — Read

By this time I had grown a great stalwart lad, little above the middle height, but broad and sinewy. I had made progress in all manly sports and could fling the hammer almost as far as the Manor blacksmith, while in leaping and running I had few rivals among lads of my age. Also I was no bad swordsman, but could stand my own against all the wiles of Tam Todd, and once even disarmed him to his own unspeakable disgust. In my studies, which I pursued as diligently as I could with no teachers and not over-many books, I had made some little advance, having read through most of the Greek tragedians and advanced some distance in the study of Plato; while in the Latin tongue I had become such an adept that I could both read and write it with ease.

When I had reached the mature age of eighteen, who should come up into our parts but my famous relative, Master Gilbert Burnet, the preacher at St. Clement's in London, of whom I have already spoken. He was making a journey to Edinburgh and had turned out of his way to revive an old acquaintance. My father was overjoyed to see him and treated him to the best the house could produce. He stayed with us two days, and I remember him still as he sat in a great armchair opposite my father, with his broad velvet cap and grey, peaked beard, and weighty brows. Yet when he willed, though for ordinary a silent man, he could talk as gaily and wittily as any town gallant; so much indeed that my father, who was somewhat hard to please, declared him the best companion he ever remembered.