P. 221. in And are we not (2) repping his Hat upon the Ground) Gone! a Moment! twas infinitely Striking! Susannah burit into a splood of tears. — We had a fat foolish fcullion-my father, I think, kept her for her fimplicity;-she had been all autumn ftruggling with a dropfy.He is dead!-faid Obadiab, he is certainly dead!-So am not I, faid the foolifh fcullion. -Here is fad news, Trim! cried Susannah, wiping her eyes, as Trim stepp'd into the kitchen.- -Mafter Bobby is dead and buried,—the funeral was an interpolation of Sufanna''s-we fhall have all to go into mourning, faid Susannah. I hope not, faid Trim!-You hope not! cried SuJannah earnestly.The mourning ran not into Trim's head, whatever it did in Sufannab's.--I hope-faid Trim, explaining himself, I hope in God the news is not true. I heard the letter read with my own ears, anfwered Obadiah. Oh! he's dead, faid Sufannab As fure, faid the fcullion, as I am alive. I lament for him from my heart and my foul, faid Trim, fetching a figh-Poor creature!-poor boy !poor gentleman! -He was alive last Whitfuntide, faid the coachman.Whitfuntide! alas ! cried Trim, extending his right arm, and falling inftantly into the fame attitude in which he read the fermon,-what is Whitfuntide, Jonathan (for that was the coachman's name), or Shrovetide, or any tide, or time past, to this? Are we not here now, continued the Corporal, (ftriking the end of his ftick perpendicularly upon the floor, so as to give an idea of health and stability)—and are we not-(dropping his hat upon the ground) gone! in a moment! 'Twas infinitely ftriking! Sufannah burst into a flood of tears. We are not stocks and ftones.-Jonathan, Obadiab, the cook-maid, all melted.The foolish fat fcullion herself, who was fcouring a fish-kettle upon her knees, was rouzed with it.-The whole kitchen crowded about the Corporal. -To us, Jonathan, who know not what want or care is, who live here in the fervice of two of the best of masters-(bating in my own cafe his Majesty King William the Third, whom I had the honour to ferve both in Ireland and Flanders)-I own it, that from Whitfuntide to within three weeks of Christmas, -'tis not long-'tis like nothing;but to thofe, Jonathan, who know what death is, and what havoc and destruction he can make, before a man can wheel about, 'tis like a whole age.-O Jonathan! 'twould make a good-natured man's heart bleed, to confider (continued the Corporal, fanding perpendicularly), how low many a brave and upright fellow has been laid fince that time ! And trust me, Sufy, added the Corporal, turning to Susannah, whofe eyes were swimming in water, before that time comes round again, --many a bright eye will be dim.-Susannab placed it to the right fide of the page-fhe wept-but fhe curt'fied too. Are we not, continued Trim, looking ftill at Susannah,— -are we not. like a flower of the —a tear of pride stole in betwixt every two tears of humiliation-elfe no tongue could have described Sufannah's affliction-is not all flesh grafs? 'Tis clay, field 'tis dirt. They all looked directly at the fcullion, -the fcullion had just been scouring a fish-kettle]: was not fair. What is the finest face that ever man looked at!I could hear Trim talk fo for ever, cried Sufannahwhat is it! (Sufannah laid her hand upon Trim's fhoulder) but corruption? Susannah took it off. -Now I love you for this-and 'tis this delicious mixture within you, which makes you, dear creatures, what you are--And he who hates you for it-all I can fay of the matter is-that he has either a pumpkin for his head-or a fippin for his heart, and whenever he is diffected, it will be found fo. For my own part, I declare it, that out of doors, I value not death at all:-not this... added the Corporal, fnapping his fingers,-but with an air which no one but the Corporal could have given to the fentiment. -In battle, I value death not this . . . and let him not take me cowardly, like poor Joe Gibbins, in fcouring his gun.What is he? A pull of a trigger— a push of a bayonet an inch this way or that-makes the difference. Look along the line-to the rightfee! Jack's down! well,-'tis worth a regiment of harfe to him.-No-'tis Dick. Then Jack's no worse. Never mind which,-we pafs on,-in hot pursuit the wound itself which brings him is not felt, the best way is to stand up to him, the man who flies, is in ten times more danger than the man who marches up into his jaws.-I've look'd him, added the Corporal, an hundred times in the face,-and know what he is. -He's nothing, Obadiah, at all in the field.-But he's |