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We had a fat foolish scullion--my father, I think, kept her for her fimplicity ; - he had been all autumn ftruggling with a dropsy.He is dead !-faid Oba. diah, he is certainly dead !-So am not I, said the foolish scullion,
-Here is sad news, Trim ! cried Sufannah, wiping her eyes, as Trim stepp'd into the kitchen. -Master Bobby is dead and buried,--the funeral was an interpolation of Sufanna''s--we thall have all to go into mourning, said Susannah.
I hope not, faid Trim !-You hópe not ! cried Sufannah earnestly. The mourning ran not into Trim's head, whatever it did in Susannah's.--I hope--faid Trim, explaining himself, I hope in Gud the news is not true. I heard the letter read with my own ears, answered Obadiah. Oh! he's dead, said Sufannab As sure, said the scullion, as I am alive.
I lament for him from my heart and my foul, said Trim, fetching a sigh-Poor creature !-poor boy! poor gentleman !
-He was alive last Whitsuntide, said the coachman.Whitsuntide ! alas ! cried Trim, extending his right arm, and falling instantly into the same attitude in which he read the sermon, what is Whitsuntide, 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, (striking the end of his stick 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 striking! Susannah burst into a flood of tears. We are not stocks and stones.-- Fonathan, Obadiah, the cook-maid, all melted. The foolish far scullion herself, who was scouring a filh-kettle upon her knees, was rouzed with it. The whole kitchen crowded about the Corporal.
-To us, Jonathan, who know not what want or căre is, - who live here in the service of two of the best of masters-bating in my own case his Majesty King William the Third, whom I had the honour ta serve both in Ireland and Flanders) -- I own it, that from Whitsuntide to within three weeks of Christmas, --'tis not long—'tis like nothing ;--but to those, 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.-- Jonathan! 'twould make a good-natured man's heart bleed, to consider (continued the Corporal, fanding perpendicularly), how low many a brave and upright fellow has been laid since that time !And trust me, Susy, added the Corporal, turning to Susannah, whose eyes were swim. ming in water ---before that time comes round again, --many a bright eye will be dim.--Sufannab placed it to the right side of the page-lhe wept—but she curt'fied too.- Are we not, continued Trim, looking still at Sufannab,
we not. like a flower of the field-a tear of pride stole in betwixt every two tears of humiliation-else no tongue could have described Susannabis affliction is not all flesh grass ? 'Tis clay, 'tis dirt.-They all looked directly at the scullion,
--the scullion had just been scouring a filh-kettle-It was not fair.
-What is the finest face that ever man looked at ! I could hear Trim talk so for ever, cried Susannahwhat is it! (Sufannah laid her hand upon Trim's shoulder)-but corruption ? Sufannab 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 say of the matter is--that he has either a pumpkin for his head-or a fippin for his heart, and whenever he is diffe&ed, it will be found so.
For-my own part, I declare it, that out of doors, I value not death at all :-not this . .. added the Corpo. ral, snapping his fingers, --but with an air which no one but the Corporal could have given to the sentiment.
In battle, I value death not this . . . and let him not take me cowardly, like poor Joe Gibbins, in scouring 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, is worth a regiment of horse to him.--No-'tis Dick. Then Jack's no worse. Never mind which, -we pass 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 louk'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