⸻My young master in London is dead! said Obadiah .—
⸻A green sattin nightgown of my mother’s which had been twice scoured, was the first idea which Obadiah’s exclamation brought into Susannah’s head.—Well might Locke write a chapter upon the imperfection of words.—Then, quoth Susannah , we must all go into mourning.—But note a second time: the word mourning , notwithstanding Susannah made use of it herself—failed also of doing its office; it excited not one single idea, tinged either with grey or black,—all was green.⸺The green sattin nightgown hung there still.
—O! ’twill be the death of my poor mistress, cried Susannah .—My mother’s whole wardrobe followed.—What a procession! her red damask,—her orange tawney,—her white and yellow lutestrings,—her brown taffata,—her bone-laced caps, her bed-gowns, and comfortable under-petticoats.—Not a rag was left behind.—“ No,—she will never look up again ,” said Susannah .
We had a fat, foolish scullion—my father, I think, kept her for her simplicity;—she had been all autumn struggling with a dropsy.—He is dead, said Obadiah ,—he is certainly dead!—So am not I, said the foolish scullion.
⸺Here is sad news, Trim , cried Susannah , wiping her eyes as Trim stepp’d into the kitchen,—master Bobby is dead and buried —the funeral was an interpolation of Susannah’s —we shall have all to go into mourning, said Susannah .
I hope not, said Trim .—You hope not! cried Susannah earnestly.—The mourning ran not in Trim’s head, whatever it did in Susannah’s .—I