delivery enhanced the
sonorous beauty which his reading had given to the whole.
    And now the servant came in with the tray, so that the moments for answering
Mrs. Waule's question had gone by safely, while she and Solomon, watching Mr.
Trumbull's movements, were thinking that high learning interfered sadly with
serious affairs. Mr. Borthrop Trumbull really knew nothing about old
Featherstone's will; but he could hardly have been brought to declare any
ignorance unless he had been arrested for misprision of treason.
    »I shall take a mere mouthful of ham and a glass of ale,« he said,
reassuringly. »As a man with public business, I take a snack when I can. I will
back this ham,« he added, after swallowing some morsels with alarming haste,
»against any ham in the three kingdoms. In my opinion it is better than the hams
at Freshitt Hall - and I think I am a tolerable judge.«
    »Some don't like so much sugar in their hams,« said Mrs. Waule. »But my poor
brother would always have sugar.«
    »If any person demands better, he is at liberty to do so; but, God bless me,
what an aroma! I should be glad to buy-in that quality, I know. There is some
gratification to a gentleman« - here Mr. Trumbull's voice conveyed an emotional
remonstrance - »in having this kind of ham set on his table.«
    He pushed aside his plate, poured out his glass of ale and drew his chair a
little forward, profiting by the occasion to look at the inner side of his legs,
which he stroked approvingly - Mr. Trumbull having all those less frivolous airs
and gestures which distinguish the predominant races of the north.
    »You have an interesting work there, I see, Miss Garth,« he observed, when
Mary re-entered. »It is by the author of Waverley: that is Sir Walter Scott. I
have bought one of his works myself - a very nice thing, a very superior
publication, entitled Ivanhoe. You will not get any writer to beat him in a
hurry, I think - he will not, in my opinion, be speedily surpassed. I have just
been reading a portion at the commencement of Anne of Jeersteen. It commences
well.« (Things never began with Mr. Borthrop Trumbull: they always commenced,
both in private life and on his handbills.) »You are a reader, I see. Do you
subscribe to our Middlemarch library?«