“Ay, ay, keep him to that, Reginald,” said Sir Waldron; “the table was, indeed, well covered. I have not dined so well these three weeks. We had a full course of downright thoroughbred old-English dishes;--Devonshire dainties of the first water; such as that transcendant lyrist, Robert Herrick, himself, when he dwelt in this country, doubtless, occasionally feasted on; compared with which, your modern kickshaws, your town messes, and hashes, and fricassees, and starved turtle, brother Archibald, are as chaff, compared with its own grain. You shall judge, Reginald: among other things, there was a remarkably fine-flavoured muggot-pie;--a dish, of which, I find, by an old manuscript, in our library, that the talented and virtuous Raleigh, was remarkably fond, and moreover partook, three days previously to his execution.” “In my opinion,” said Archibald, “a man who would be fool enough to prefer muggot-pie to--” “It's fine eating, Archibald,” quoth Sir Waldron; “would that you had tasted it!--and Sir Walter was a great man;--fine eating, on the honour of a gentleman.” “What! calves' tripe baked in a pie, fine eating!” said Archibald; “if this be the result of your dwelling in Devonshire--” “I never was out of it but thrice in my life,” said Sir Waldron; “and each time I had cause to repent of my folly.--But, to waive the muggot--had we not, also, parsley-pie?--” “Made, as its name implies, of the herb that's used for garnish!” “Squab-pie--” “A horrible mixture of mutton-chops, apples, onions, and fat bacon!--Most abominable!--the stench was enough to have defeated an army of civilized beings. In fact, the dinner given by Peregrine Pickle's friend, the physician, in imitation of the ancients--” “The ancients fed well,” observed Reginald; “Heliogabalus--” “Was a nincompoop to Queen Elizabeth's cook,” added Sir Waldron, rather warmly; “whose mistress was served with fine natural meat and drink--” “Such as muggot, squab, and parsley-pies, I suppose,” quoth Archibald. “The appetites of the Romans,” continued Sir Waldron, “were, in latter times, depraved; and so is my brother Archibald's. Smollett very justly ridicules the feasts of the ancients, in that passage of Peregrine Pickle, where--” “Really, brother Waldron,” interrupted Reginald, while a slight blush tinged his cheek, “I must entreat of you to pass on to some other subject; you know we never agree on this: if I have a failing--_if_, said I?--I meant, that, among my numerous failings, that of being slightly irritable, when the glorious masters of the world are attacked, by one who cannot appreciate them, is, I am sorry to say, very conspicuous.”