“Quite as bad, let me tell you, if you had stolen yourself away without giving me the pleasure of seeing you again. I had rather you had taken my copper Otho himself.--But come, let me show you the way into my sanctum sanctorum--my cell I may call it, for, except two idle hussies of womankind,” (by this contemptuous phrase, borrowed from his brother-antiquary, the cynic Anthony a-Wood, Mr. Oldbuck was used to denote the fair sex in general, and his sister and niece in particular), “that, on some idle pretext of relationship, have established themselves in my premises, I live here as much a Coenobite as my predecessor, John o’ the Girnell, whose grave I will show you by and by.” Thus speaking the old gentleman led the way through a low door; but before entrance, suddenly stopped short to point out some vestiges of what he called an inscription, and, shaking his head as he pronounced it totally illegible, “Ah! if you but knew, Mr. Lovel, the time and trouble that these mouldering traces of letters have cost me! No mother ever travailed so for a child--and all to no purpose--although I am almost positive that these two last marks imply the figures, or letters, LV, and may give us a good guess at the real date of the building, since we know, aliunde, that it was founded by Abbot Waldimir about the middle of the fourteenth century--and, I profess, I think that centre ornament might be made out by better eyes than mine.” “I think,” answered Lovel, willing to humour the old man, “it has something the appearance of a mitre.” “I protest you are right! you are right! it never struck me before--see what it is to have younger eyes--A mitre--a mitre--it corresponds in every respect.” The resemblance was not much nearer than that of Polonius’s cloud to a whale, or an owzel; it was sufficient, however, to set the Antiquary’s brains to work. “A mitre, my dear sir,” continued he, as he led the way through a labyrinth of inconvenient and dark passages, and accompanied his disquisition with certain necessary cautions to his guest--“A mitre, my dear sir, will suit our abbot as well as a bishop--he was a mitred abbot, and at the very top of the roll--take care of these three steps--I know Mac-Cribb denies this, but it is as certain as that he took away my Antigonus, no leave asked--you’ll see the name of the Abbot of Trotcosey, Abbas Trottocosiensis, at the head of the rolls of parliament in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries--there is very little light here, and these cursed womankind always leave their tubs in the passage--now take, care of the corner--ascend twelve steps, and ye are safe!” [Illustration: The Antiquary and Lovel--the Sanctum]