“To be sure it has,” replied Archibald; “because I'm here--where I've nothing to do--and nothing to eat.” “Nothing to eat, Archibald Hackle!” exclaimed Sir Waldron, drawing himself up with an expression of offended dignity; “Hackle Hall, sir, is almost an open house, even to the wayfarer;--you are one of its sons. I trust I have supported the honour of our ancestors while it has been in my keeping;--if you think otherwise, brother Archibald, and can shew that I have not deported myself as becometh the head of the family, although you are my younger brother, I lie open to your most severe censure.” “My dear fellow,” said Archibald, in a familiar manner, that Sir Waldron deemed altogether unsuitable to the circumstances of the moment, “my dear fellow, I don't care a pepper-pod about the honour of our ancestors.” “Not for the honour of our ancestors, brother Archibald!” exclaimed Reginald, raising his eye-brows, and laying considerable emphasis on every word, so as to make himself clearly understood. “Ay, sir!” said Sir Waldron sternly; “not for the honour of our house, eh?” “Not a pepper-pod!” replied Archibald, coolly. “I have other things to trouble me:--I care more about the house of Van Bummel and Crootz of Amsterdam honouring its bills; except, indeed, that this house is your property, Waldron;--but I suppose, of course, it's insured;--you couldn't be such a fool as not to insure it;--and therefore, perhaps, the sooner it's burned down the better, if it wasn't for the loss to the company; for, to speak the truth, it's one of the ugliest edifices I ever had the honour of beholding. I dare say it was well enough a few centuries back; but it has been so patched, and with so little attention to orders that it looks as bad as a beggar's coat. It's a compound of the tastes of every half century for these four hundred years past, and harmonizes remarkably well, brothers, with the range of our ancestors' portraits in the gallery:--there they are, bow-legs and bandy-legs, fat old fellows in flowing wigs, who remind one of porters at a masquerade, and brawny ruffians in armour, whose looks would half hang them, without other evidence, in any court in the kingdom:--Round-heads, cavaliers, churchmen, and knights of the shire;--mitres and helmets, cocked hats and cones, with women to match, for each generation;--tag-rag and bob-tail, pell-mell, higgledy-piggledy,--in all styles, costumes, forms and fashions!” “Those portraits, sir,” exclaimed Sir Waldron, “are invaluable--invaluable, sir!”