tmas book goes on to
say--"It has a ghostly sound, lingering within the Altar, where it
seems to chant in its wild way of Wrong and Murder done, and false Gods
worshipped, in defiance of the Tables of the Law, which look so fair and
smooth, but are so flawed and broken. Ugh! Heaven preserve us, sitting
snugly round the fire!--it has an awful voice that Wind at Midnight,
singing in a church!" Of all this and of yet more to the like purpose,
not one syllable was there in the Reading, which, on the contrary, began
at once point-blank: "High up in the steeple of an old church, far
above the town, and far below the clouds, dwelt the 'Chimes' I tell
of." Directly after which the Reader, having casually mentioned the
circumstance of their just then striking twelve at noon, gave utterance
to Trotty Yeck's ejaculatory reflection: "Dinner-time, eh? Ah! There's
nothing more regular in its coming round than dinner-time, and there's
nothing less regular in its coming round than dinner." Followed by his
innocently complacent exclamation: "I wonder whether it would be worth
any gentleman's while, now, to buy that observation for the Papers, or
the Parliament!" The Reader adding upon the instant, with an explanatory
aside, that "Trotty was only joking," striving to console himself
doubtless for the exceeding probability there was before him, at the
moment, of his going, not for the first time, dinnerless.

In the thick of his meditations Trotty was startled--those who ever
attended this Reading will remember how pleasantly--by the unlooked-for
appearance of his pretty daughter Meg. "And not alone!" as she told him
cheerily. "Why you don't mean to say," was the wondering reply of the
old ticket-porter, looking curiously the while at a covered basket
carried in Margaret's hand, "that you have brought------"

Hadn't she! It was burning hot--scalding! He must guess from the
steaming flavour what it was! Thereupon came the by-play of the
Humorist--after the fashion of Munden, who, according to Charles Lamb,
"understood a leg of mutton in its quiddity." It was thus with the
Reader when he syllabled, with watering lips, guess after guess at the
half-opened basket. "It ain't--I suppose it ain't polonies? [sniffing].
No. It's--it's mellower than polonies. It's too decided for trotters.
Liver? No. There's a mildness about it that don't answer to liver.
Pettitoes? No. It ain't faint enough for pettitoes. It wants the
stringiness of cock's heads.