seemed a newfangled and heathenish invention,
and the voice of the female womankind I rejected as equally shrill and
dissonant; wherefore, contrary to the said Mahommed, or Mahomet, I have
resumed the bell. It has a local propriety, since it was the conventual
signal for spreading the repast in their refectory, and it has the
advantage over the tongue of my sister's prime minister, Jenny, that,
though not quite so loud and shrill, it ceases ringing the instant you
drop the bell-rope: whereas we know, by sad experience, that any attempt
to silence Jenny, only wakes the sympathetic chime of Miss Oldbuck and
Mary M'Intyre to join in chorus."

With this discourse he led the way to his dining-parlour, which Lovel
had not yet seen;--it was wainscotted, and contained some curious
paintings. The dining-table was attended by Jenny; but an old
superintendent, a sort of female butler, stood by the sideboard, and
underwent the burden of bearing several reproofs from Mr. Oldbuck, and
inuendos, not so much marked, but not less cutting, from his sister.

The dinner was such as suited a professed antiquary, comprehending many
savoury specimens of Scottish viands, now disused at the tables of those
who affect elegance. There was the relishing Solan goose, whose smell is
so powerful that he is never cooked within doors. Blood-raw he proved to
be on this occasion, so that Oldbuck half threatened to throw the
greasy sea-fowl at the head of the negligent housekeeper, who acted as
priestess in presenting this odoriferous offering. But, by good-hap,
she had been most fortunate in the hotch-potch, which was unanimously
pronounced to be inimitable. "I knew we should succeed here," said
Oldbuck exultingly, "for Davie Dibble, the gardener (an old bachelor
like myself), takes care the rascally women do not dishonour our
vegetables. And here is fish and sauce, and crappit-heads--I acknowledge
our womankind excel in that dish--it procures them the pleasure of
scolding, for half an hour at least, twice a-week, with auld Maggy
Mucklebackit, our fish-wife. The chicken-pie, Mr. Lovel, is made after
a recipe bequeathed to me by my departed grandmother of happy memory--And
if you will venture on a glass of wine, you will find it worthy of
one who professes the maxim of King Alphonso of Castile,--Old wood to
burn--old books to read--old wine to drink--and old friends, Sir Arthur--ay,
Mr. Lovel, and young friends too, to converse with."

"And what news d