Was it Mackay’s regiment, quoth my uncle Toby , where the poor grenadier was so unmercifully whipp’d at Bruges about the ducats?—O Christ! he was innocent! cried Trim , with a deep sigh.—And he was whipp’d, may it please your honour, almost to death’s door.—They had better have shot him outright, as he begg’d, and he had gone directly to heaven, for he was as innocent as your honour.⸻I thank thee, Trim , quoth my uncle Toby .⸺I never think of his, continued Trim , and my poor brother Tom’s misfortunes, for we were all three schoolfellows, but I cry like a coward.⸺Tears are no proof of cowardice, Trim .—I drop them ofttimes myself, cried my uncle Toby .⸺I know your honour does, replied Trim , and so am not ashamed of it myself.—But to think, may it please your honour, continued Trim , a tear stealing into the corner of his eye as he spoke—to think of two virtuous lads with hearts as warm in their bodies, and as honest as God could make them—the children of honest people, going forth with gallant spirits to seek their fortunes in the world—and fall into such evils!—poor Tom! to be tortured upon a rack for nothing—but marrying a Jew’s widow who sold sausages—honest Dick Johnson’s soul to be scourged out of his body, for the ducats another man put into his knapsack!—O!—these are misfortunes, cried Trim ,—pulling out his handkerchief—these are misfortunes, may it please your honour, worth lying down and crying over.
—My father could not help blushing.
’Twould be a pity, Trim , quoth my uncle Toby , thou shouldst ever feel sorrow of thy own—thou feelest it so tenderly for others.—Alack-o-day, replied the corporal, brightening up his face⸻your honour knows I have neither wife or child⸺I can have no sorrows in this world.⸺My father could not help smiling.—As few as any man, Trim